A boy in arda? le gasp!
by the3bears
Summary: Yes someone who falls into middle earth who doesn't find a gorgeous elfrangerrohirrim warrior to fall in love with because they're a boy and straight! Nor is he a larry stew or anything. Has some french in it but easy stuffEnjoy!
1. literature? not my thing thanks

AN; well someone from earth gets dropped in middle earth, but nowhere near Rivendell, so they don't go on the fellowship! So there! They get dropped in Rohan, but they don't fall in love with Éomer because they are a boy!! (Anyway, he's taken anyway by Lothiriel) (And don't even try to bring Eowyn in to the picture instead; she's taken too)

Disclaimer; if I owned Tolkein's characters, then I would not be wasting my time writing fan fiction. I would be spending the money all the fans generate for me!

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The paper bullet bounced off the back of his head, and landed on Katherine's table. She wrinkled her nose and flicked it over the edge with the very end of her ruler; standard regulation, WH smith, 99p. Boring. Jake smiled to himself, 'stationary to suit every character'. He turned in his seat and grinned at Adam, sitting in the back row beside the empty seat which he had just been forced to move from to sit here, at the front, right under Sir's nose.

He couldn't see why he'd been moved. Sir was probably just narked again because he'd seen Jake laughing at him from the upper floor of the bus which had sent water flooding over his bike. Jake scowled, it wasn't his fault Sir had got soaked, and no one would have not laughed to see the sodden teacher who had sent back their last essay with red pen all over it and a note at the bottom saying '_see me'_.

As the lesson ended, and Jake bent down to gather up his bag from under his desk, Sir gestured for him to come see him when he had finished. Jake wearily pushed back his chair, hoping he wouldn't get another detention. Last time he had missed the bus, and his mum had been furious when he came home, _"too late for your tea! Food wasted! Well I'm not cooking you anything more tonight, so you can just stay out of that kitchen". _He'd had to resort to some chips from the McDonalds on the corner, risking the disapproving glances from passers by as he tried to slake his hunger on fast food. They though he was just another yobbo, out to vandalise another bus shelter or steal a car. What did they expect when they had nowhere else to go? He'd tried the local youth club a couple of times but they kept going on outings, like ten pin bowling or the cinema, and he'd felt embarrassed when he hadn't enough money to join in. It was for rich kids really.

A muffled squeak from behind him brought him sharply back to the classroom.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He groaned inwardly. He had pushed his chair right back into Katherine, and she was squashed between it and the table behind.

"Look out Jake!" Sir was scowling at him again, and he grunted a sorry to Katherine. "What did you just say Jake? I will not tolerate foul language in my class!"

Damn. Now Sir thought he'd sworn at Katherine. He bet if it was Katherine who'd done it, Sir wouldn't expect him to want an apology.

When she finally deemed that he'd got into enough trouble, Katherine left the classroom, ponytail swinging and heels tapping. She was just like the horse she kept going on about to her friends. Flicka does this, Flicka did that. Why did she deserve to have enough money for a horse of her own when his family hadn't got enough money to really afford the My Little Pony set they'd bought his little sister for her last birthday?

He shouldered his schoolbag and shuffled to the front of the classroom, not wanting to seem too obedient; Adam would be waiting outside the door, and any keenness would probably be duly noted, enlarged and then retold. He didn't want to be the laughing stock of the school, that was for sure.

Sir was routing through a draw when he reached the front desk, and eventually he withdrew the book he had been looking for. He handed it to Jake, who stared at him in astonishment.

"This is the Lord of the Rings, Jake, and I'd like you to try and read some of it. It's a great book." He smiled his _I'm your friend really _smile, "Maybe you saw the films?"

Jake recognised that the enquiring tilt of his head meant it was his turn or some input. He shrugged "Saw the first one. Didn't like it much."

"Oh?" Sir looked slightly surprised, "I thought they were rather good myself, though obviously, they missed out a lot of the metaphorical side, and dear old Tom Bombadil wasn't there, which I thought was rather a shame."

Jake risked a glance at the door. Sure enough there was Adam, grinning at him through the dirty window. "Uh sir", he interrupted his teacher's flow of whimsy, "Football practice starts soon and I kind of need to go…" He edged towards the door hopefully but Sir, obviously annoyed by his lack of poetic spirit or whatever, called him back.

"Well Jake, I don't think I can excuse you from detention just for a bit of a game. You will have to stay the full hour, and after your rudeness to Katherine, I hardly think you should be expecting leniency!"

Jakes shoulders sagged; his mum was going to be so annoyed if he was late again. Coach was going to be annoyed, he looked to the door as he resumed his seat, Adam gave him the finger, yes, even Adam was annoyed, now Jake had made him miss his pre-training fag for nothing. He took out the book Sir had given him and opened it to page one. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy reading, but 'literature'? That just wasn't his style. He hadn't actually been able to see the film, but Adam had told him about it and the idea of cashing in £6.50 to see 'poncy blonde men going round in tights' hadn't been particular attractive to him.

"_When Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton." _

Well, so far, so not good. He turned to the back of the massive book, but couldn't discern anything understandable there. It was all charts and an index. An index in a fiction book! He gave up; it was impossible. He watched the rain drops chase each other down the windows, wondering how much the team were getting yelled at out on the pitch.

At least he was still in the warm classroom. It was comfortable at least, very comfortable. The only noises were Sir's fountain pen, scratching away at the front of the class, and the notoriously noisy boiler, chugging away to itself in the corner, valiantly working to warm the room, despite the heating grills being clogged with chewing gum, and the single glazed plate glass. It was very quiet, very cosy. Very comfortable…

AN; hopefully he's not too 'poor little poor boy'. If you can't guess what will happen next chapter then you are very dense. Do R&R, especially if you don't like this character because why should I bother to write a bad story and why should you bother to let the site fill up with the bad fiction?


	2. running towards the spears

Thanks to all the reviewers; here's Jake again, but where is he? Can you guess? Where ever he is I don't own it (of course; imagine real estate values in middle earth)

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He woke to wetness, and coldness and a general uncomfortable feeling. His head hurt, as though he had got smashed the night before, but he couldn't remember that happening. He would only have been able to afford a bottle of the cheap beer that Adam's friend's cousin sold to those who hadn't got their fake IDs sorted, which he hadn't been able to do. The guy had wanted more than he'd been able to pay, so it was the doorstep for him when his mates were in the pub.

Jake tried to think back to the last thing he'd done, but came up with nothing. He remembered having to miss Football training because…because of his essay and little Miss Katherine's hissy fit. What class had it been? English, yes definitely English because he'd been given a book…a book called…something. He couldn't remember.

He must have ended up in the park or somewhere like that anyhow, because the wet stuff under him was grass. He groaned; his dad was going to kill him. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, not opening his eyes so he wouldn't be forced to let in the light he knew would make his headache worse. It was cold in his school uniform, and he realised he wasn't even wearing his blazer. He hoped he hadn't lost _that_ or he'd really be for it. His shirt was wet through, and so, he realised were his school trousers. He groaned again. His mum was definitely not going to like this at all.

It must be really early in the morning. No way were the streets of Barnet this quiet any other time. And there wasn't the familiar smell of traffic fumes, he realised, finally the placing the source of the unsettled feeling he had had since he woke. That was really strange. Even when there wasn't traffic, there was still traffic smell.

He opened his eyes.

He shut his eyes again.

Help.

Where on earth was he?

The yellow plains around him stretched as far as he could see, until mountains raised their crests to the icy blue morning sky. Gigantic rocks, lumps of granite, were scattered like they had been thrown by some gigantic hand. This was not Barnet, or any of it's environs. What had he taken last night? It must have been something seriously hard to do this. How had he got it? How had he paid for it? Why had he got it?

He was not one of the rich kids, who took a few drugs here and a few drugs there, artfully sniffing cocaine to make them look cool, and convince them that they lived on 'the edge'. Jake and his friends didn't take drugs because they simply couldn't afford them, and he did not find their allure even faintly attractive to him. Many of his friends smoked, but their families were like that. His family was straight laced; if his parents saw any of their kids smoking they would blow up, and woe betide the one who came in even smelling of the stuff. His mum tried to keep the place as clean as possible, and she didn't need her sons making it stink.

So what on earth had come over him?

He opened his eyes again, and stood up, his head protesting this as a bad move all the while. Groaning, he scanned the horizon, hoping to catch the drug out and reveal a face or something staring down at him through the blue above. Any minute now he would start to panic, and he tried desperately to dampen that feeling. They had all listened dutifully to the drugs talk, and he knew that any agitation would make the drug's affects even more potent. You had to wait until it was all over. But he could feel the grass under his feet, feel the springiness of the long stems under the soles of his school shoes, and he could definitely feel the coldness, penetrating, it seemed to him, through to his mind, drugged to the ears as he might be.

Basic football training took over. 'If you're cold, then warm up', coach would say when they complained at temperatures of minus 3°C. He began to run; slowly feeling warm blood running through his veins again as freezing cold air filled his lungs. He heard a screech overhead, the first sign of life in this wilderness, and he looked up as he ran, to see a massive bird of prey, an eagle he guessed, though probably that name sprung to his mind simply because it was the only bird he associated with such a huge wingspan. It was flying high in the sky, wheeling overhead as it passed him, to circle him once before it flew on.

Jake was impressed that his mind could conjure up such an image, even on drugs. The bird dwindled to a speck over the mountains, and he was half sorry to see it go. Even though he did not wish to be attacked by a hallucination of a giant eagle, the bird had been the only other moving thing he had seen. He was perfectly warm now, and he was content in the knowledge that he could keep this speed up comfortably for perhaps two hours, if he really needed to. He hoped he wouldn't; it seemed unfair to him that he had to work so hard just to keep warm in his own mind. If this was his own fevered brain imagining things, didn't he get a choice?

Before too long had passed, he saw on a small crest not too far away, a drift of smoke. He was not close enough to see any detail, but the smoke stood out clear against the sky and he made for it eagerly. He was hungry by now, and if this hallucination had any kind of decency, it would produce some food for him.

His mouth watered; what he wouldn't give for something hot to eat. Breakfast was usually a 'grab what you can meal', unless Dad was on a long haul and wanted porridge, but he usually grabbed quite a lot, to make up for the lack of lunch that was the usual order of the day. What would be really great would be a big fry up, like he was given when he accompanied Dad in the cab of the lorry, and they stopped at a Welcome Break or a Little Chef.

As he got closer, he could make out a building on the very top of the hill, glinting in the sunlight. It must be a building of some sort, though he couldn't believe even something as stupid as his own brain could come up with the idea that someone would build in the middle of nowhere, without any roads to be seen at all, as far as he could tell. He couldn't even see any telephone or electricity pylons.

When he was perhaps 500 metres away from the hill, he stopped and gaped in astonishment. It was a town _from the dark ages. _He couldn't believe his own mind was this warped. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the massive hall on the hill was thatched, with such bright straw it could be gold. There was a palisade wall, and a gate that was flanked on either side by watch towers, also of wood and straw. He could hear people's voices, carried clearly on the morning air, and he caught the whinnies of horses, and the shouts of a market, he guessed. They certainly had the tone of the market sellers from Barnet anyway, though perhaps, he thought, they probably weren't selling two pounds of bananas for three-fifty.

The thought of food was enough to override even his shock at arriving at a medieval village, and he started to jog again. When he reached the gate, however, he was pulled up short by two men, armed with spears. They seemed surprised at his appearance as well, and he could well believe it; his charcoal grey school trousers, white (probably grey too now) shirt and red and black school tie contrasted sharply with their dirty armour and weathered cloak. They levelled their spears at him and spoke in a language he did not understand.

Help again.

AN; Yay hope you liked that. You have two choices;

If you did like it; REVIEW and _say_ you did.

If you didn't like it; REVIEW and tell me why


	3. i'm sure le bastille was never this damp

A/n I don't own middle earth, or the French and German languages, and as you'll see, I don't speak them very well either. I just thought it would help me with my revision to write something in French where I was actually interested in what I was saying. I haven't included accents though because it takes soooo long, and I'd probably get them wrong anyway. Hope you like!

The repeating of the words and waving of the spears wasn't doing anything for Jake. He took French and German at school, but if you weren't saying what you did last weekend or something, then it was all Greek to him. When they finally realised he didn't understand they switched to some other gibberish he didn't understand either. All he knew was that it was different gibberish from before.

He certainly understood the spears though. They were herding him into the town, one on either side. He saw more men as he passed the gates, but not many. They were all weather beaten, with beards and manes of unkempt hair, as though they had been sleeping rough lately. What he might look like, he considered, if he had spent six months in the wilderness, rather than about six hours. They were talking amongst themselves, glaring at him suspiciously, nursing mugs of ale or beer, by the looks of it. They were dressed exactly as the gate men had been, in dirty amour, with old tunics on and cloaks. No adidas or Reebok rip offs here then. He doubted they'd ever seen anything like what he was wearing before, and he was beginning to feel very exposed and strange among them, even though his own mind had created them.

Jake had to keep reminding himself that it was all in his mind, so detailed were the houses, right down to the nails in the wooden houses and the splinters on the top of the palisades. On his way up the hill, they passed horses and people, seemingly in equal number. The horses were being taken to a pen at the foot of the slope, where there was still pasture, in contrast to the shorter grasses that bordered the track they walked on. The women were all shrouded in cloaks against the stiff wind, but their faces were exposed, and looked almost as weather beaten as the men. They all seemed to be in want of a comb and their reddish gold locks were tangled. He glimpsed occasional brooches and necklaces, but for the majority they were a plain people, hugely different from the bling culture he'd come from.

He could feel the tiredness in his muscles, as they cooled down, and the spear poking into his back did not help matters. If he had hoped to be met with hot food and drink, he was disappointed. Eventually, he was shoved up some steps, finally stone rather than dirt track, the herded suspiciously through a side door into a narrow, shadowy room which smelt, as far as he could tell, of stale beer and horses. He presumed it was the guards room, and this was confirmed when he was confronted by a row of cloaks and bits of armour, with one man pulling on what looked to be a combination of unsewn cloth and boot. The man stared at Jake, exclaiming at his strange clothes, which set up a short guttural conversation between the three men.

He had by this time been jostled to a corner, though a spear was still pointed at his midriff. After the men had finished their argument, which the boot man seemed to have lost, he stepped forward, and spoke in extremely oddly accented German,

"Ich…ich spreche…ich spreche eine kleine common." He was trying very hard to remember his words and Jake suspected his German was probably marginally better.

"Ich bin Jake. Ich…uh…ich wohne im England…uh…ich bin wo?" the man stared back at him and recognised the problem he always had with languages; he might me able to ask questions, like 'Please could I have three kilos of apples?', but he would never be able to understand what they replied.

Darn! Why hadn't he tried harder in German class? He tried again, "Du bist qui?" no that was wrong- that was a mix of French and German. He was about to try a third time, but then he noticed the affect his last word had had on the men. They were staring at him in surprise, if possible even greater surprise than they had at first sighting him. One of the men who had brought him seemed to utter something between a shout of shock and a curse at his companions, and Jake suddenly found the spear pressed a great deal closer to his chest, then the other two soldiers grabbed his arms and hoisted him almost off his feet, dragging him out of the musty room into the cold air, down the steps and around the side of the rocky plateau on which the main thatched building was set. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the view he was stunned to think he had spent the day running over, but then they were beside a door set into the rocky shelf. One guard banging on it with his gloved hand until it was opened by another guard, pale from, Jake suspected, far too little sunlight. He gaped at Jake as well but after one of his captors sneered out something in their throaty tongue he quickly moved aside to allow them to walk in front of him, his lamp the only light in the tunnel.

Without warning, the pale sentry commanded them to stop, inching along the wall between the other men and fumbling for a lock. He laughed when he looked inside and Jake heard a curse from within, angry and powerful in such small confines. Almost before he had time to notice the tensing of the men on wither side of him, Jake was thrust inside the cell, and the door was slammed shut leaving them in total darkness as he heard the key being turned in the heavy lock and the bolt being slammed across as footsteps retreated their owners seemingly arguing heatedly.

Only when the sounds died away, and even the echoes in his mind had played themselves out, did the other occupant of the cell speak. Unfortunately, he spoke in the same gibberish as the guards, though his voice was fractionally deeper and seemed to resonate more strongly, though that could have been an effect of the solid rock that enclosed them.

Eager at least to hear something that he vaguely understood he tried out the same question he had asked the sentry.

"Ich bin Jake, Ich wohne im Barnet. Ich bin wo?" There was a swift movement from across the room, and Jake knew the language had surprised his cell mate, however he replied in what Jake could only assume was fluent 'common'

Unfortunately, although his companion seemed to have picked up on Jake's rather desperate tone and his own voice was quieter and less commanding, Jake's own German was not equal to his, and he kicked himself again for not paying attention to Frau Schmidt.

"Wo?" he said weakly.

"Med-u-seld" the man enunciated each syllable slowly and clearly, as though to a child. Just his luck that he had ended up in a culture where they spoke the language he was worst at. He was better in French, but he certainly didn't want to try that again after the last time had brought him to this dark hole.

However, his companion was less ready to give up. He began trying out what Jake could only guess was the same simple sentence in all the languages he knew, his voice going from guttural to clear cut, to fluid, before finally Jake almost fell over in surprise, for he began to speak French.

"Je suis Eomer, le fils d'Eomund. Vous etez en Rohan." _(I am Eomer, son of Eomund)_ He was just about to move on again, either that or give up, for his grunts of frustration grew worse with every failed language, but Jake quickly intercepted him.

"Je m'appelle Jake. Vous parlez francais?" _(I am called Jake. Do you speak French?)_

"Je parle elvish." _(i speak elvish)_ His voice seemed hesitant with this language, and Jake was concentrating too hard too register until a moment or too later that he had referred to French as Elvish. Elvish; that meant elf language. That was ridiculous.

"Elves n'existent pas!" _(Elves don't exist)_ He couldn't help himself exclaiming, hoping the verb was the same, as evidently it was, for the man laughed.

"Mais vous parlez le langue d'elves; ils doivent exister, n'est pas?" _(But if you're speaking their language they must exist musn't they)_

Great; now the guy was laughing at him while they discussed creatures from a fairytale, short things with pointed ears.

"Dans mon monde, ils n'existent pas." _(In my world they don't exist)_

"Votre monde!" _(Your world?)_ it didn't sound like a question, more an incredulous exclamation. He muttered in his own language again, and Jake noted the change in tone; he was angry again and it seemed that he was now partially implicated as the cause.

"Est-ce que tu est fou?" _(are you mad?)_ startled, Jake leaned back against the wall, his head knocking painfully against the stone. He swore, and shut his eyes, not that it made much difference in the pitch black darkness. Now the man thought he was crazy. He gave up, as he stared at the insides of his own eyelids, cold seeping through his trousers from the cold floor underneath, and his shirt growing damp from the patches of moss that seemed to carbuncle the walls. He was resigned; there was no point in even attempting anything else when he was this tired, hungry, and cold. Perhaps he _was_ mad. It certainly wasn't a normal thing to do; imagining a village from olden times where there all spoke German, and he was thrown into a dungeon for speaking French.

Please review, with a cherry on top. Will bake cyber cookies for nice reviewers using flames. 

French translated roughly in italics as requested thanks to the reviewers.


	4. languishing

A/N well I don't own anything but Jake (so don't steal him)

WARNING; Francophobes beware, this episode contains mucho frencho! but now in italics (-o)

Well here's the fourth instalment of Jake; the boy in middle earth. We rejoin him just as he starts to get to know his cellmate…

He was just about to shut out the world around him and drift into sleep when the voice of the man opposite jerked him awake.

"Bien, ou est votre monde, si tu ne connaissez pas Rohan?" _(well, where is your world, if you don't know Rohan)_ His fellow seemed willing to talk even to a madman, and Jake suspected from the man's volubility that he had been immured here for quite a long time.

Not knowing the vocabulary he needed in French, or moreover the words he would use in English, he instead tried to explain where England was. "Mon pay est Angleterre. Il est une isle dans le mer du nord." _(My country is England. It is an island in the north sea.)_ He didn't think his grammar had been quite right there, but hoped he would still be understood.

"Angleterre? Non, je ne connais pas, mais je ne connais pas tous les isles dans Arda, donc peut etre vous n'etez pas fou." _(England? no i don't know it, but then i don't know all the islands of Arda so perhaps you are not mad.)_

Jake couldn't help himself from giving a small snort of amusement at that, and to his surprise, one of many that day, Éomer laughed as well.

"Je suis desole, Jake, j'ai ete tres impoli. Est qu'il y a une guerre dans votre pay?" _(I am sorry. I was rude. Is there a war in your country?)_

Jake quickly tried to remember what guerre meant. A station? No; that was gare, or something. War! That was it; la guerre mondiale was the world war.

"Non, nous avons…uh…nous n'avons pas une guerre, mais le gouvernement veut faire une guerre dans l'est." _(no we don't...uh...we don't have a war, but the government wants to go to war in the east.)_

"le gouvernement?" _(the government?)_

"Les ministres, les gens qui...uh...dirigent le pays." _(the ministers, the people who...uh...run the country)_ that was about as far as his vocabulary was going to take him. Anyway, he could hardly explain the ins and outs of Tony Blair's regime in English under normal circumstances, and these were nothing like normal. Luckily Éomer hadn't noticed the pause, but seemed to be deep in thought, from what Jake could tell of the sounds coming from him, as off a man scratching a weeks worth of stubble.

"Est ce que vous n'avez pas un re?" _(do you not have a King?)_ Jake was quite surprised at the intensity of Éomer's voice. He seemed extremely shocked about the democratic system, and also slightly affronted. Obviously they had a powerful royal family here, though it was strange for the man to make not having a royal family sound insulting, after he had presumably ended up in prison for offending them.

Suddenly Jake was struck by what he had just thought; what was Éomer in prison for? Was he sitting only feet away from a murderer, or a rapist? He drew in his knees slightly, feeling exposed as he sat there in the dark, not knowing what he faced. Éomer chose that moment to repeat his neglected question, and Jake started, hurrying to give an answer, in case his companion did not like to be kept waiting. After all, there was no one to hear him, and he was not wearing chains, so why would Éomer be?

"Il y a une renne, mais elle n'a pas beaucoup de pouvoir." _(there is a queen but she doesn't have much power.) _He hoped that was right. They had never quite got around to politics and diplomacy with Madame Mooney. He was pretty sure his 'elvish' was absolutely scattered by mistakes, but then, he also suspected Éomer to be rather less than fluent in it, so perhaps it evened them out rather. Anything to put off death at the hands of a potential axe murderer, and looking at the weapons the soldiers had had, an axe probably wasn't entirely out of the question.

A deep sigh answered him from across the room, then what sounded like musings in Éomer's harsh language.

"Peut-etre votre pays est plus comme mon que nous pensions." _(perhaps your country is more like mine than i thought.)_

Jake didn't quite know what to say to that; did the man mean this royal family had very little power either, like the queen, or what? He remained silent, not wishing to provoke his companion while he did not know whether he supported the monarchy or not. Whatever the case he probably wouldn't appreciate that all Jake saw of the royal family was the queen's speech at Christmas, and he normally dozed off even in that short show of monarchical splendour.

Luckily, the guy seemed to catch on to his reticence and switched the conversation to a less controversial front.

"Quels chevaux avez vous dans votre pays?" _(what horses do you have in your country?)_ That was certainly an unexpected question; his hair? What did that have to do with anything?

"Mes cheveux sont bruns, et j'ai des yeux bleus," _(my hair is brown and i have blue eyes.)_ he was about to continue, to give the memorised description of himself that he'd memorised for his oral exam in year eight, but was stopped by sounds that were suspiciously like restrained chuckles. Forgetting his fear of Éomer he asked indignantly what he was laughing at.

"Rien, rien." _(nothing, nothing)_ Well by the sound of his bellows, which were now echoing loudly around the cell walls, it evidently wasn't nothing!

"Excuse moi monsieur mais je voudrais savoir quoi est le raison pour vous rire?" _(excuse me sir but i would like to know what you are laughing at?)_ that wasn't a perfect sentence either, but he didn't know the french (or 'elvish') for any of the four letter words which would have been so much more expedient that the improperly executed cold enquiry.

Getting a hold of himself, the man made apologetic sounds into what Jake suspected was his beard, finally gasping out, "les chevaux! Pas les cheveux! Les chevaux dissent 'neigh' et mangent l'herbe!" (_the horses! not the hair! Horses go 'neigh' and eat grass!!!)_

Jake felt himself redden and was glad, for the first time, of the darkness that hid his flush. He had mistaken 'horses' for 'hair'.

Nevertheless, every cloud has a silver lining, Jake thought hopefully, using one of his grandmother's favourite sayings. He could hear hurrying footsteps in the corridor outside, and a voice giving another orders. The weaselly voice of the gaoler was recognisable, though it had lost its former bravado and jeering mockery. It sounded like he was getting a right ear full. Maybe Éomer's laughter had summoned someone to fetch them food. His stomach growled in anticipation.

His companion had also heard the footsteps, and there was no trace of a laugh in his voice when he spoke, this time a violent exclamation in his own tongue, desperately hopeful. There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and the door was flung open, forcing Jake to shield his eyes from the weak glare of the lantern and so many hours of sitting in the pitch black. The other man also turned away, but his cry was not a yelp of pain, but a torrent of questions, interspersed with , Jake guessed, frequent curses.

The man with the lantern bowed, causing the light to be blocked slightly by his body, and straggly hair. He was dressed, as far as Jake could see, in the fashion of the other guards, complete with helm. Éomer stopped his tirade as the man straightened up, instead struggling to stand, losing the battle against the rather substantial chains that bound him to the wall. Quickly the guard hurried over, pursued by the man with the lantern's orders. As he was freed, Éomer's questions were answered and some answers seemed to surprise him greatly. He became very excited at the mentions of some names, or what Jake guessed were names, but at one he turned and spat at the man beside him who was trembling as he undid the bonds, and cursed him.

Finally he was free and he stood up, seeming to fill the room with his presence. He must have been at least six foot six and towered over Jake, who was made to feel short at five foot nine. After making one last, sharp question, he gestured to Jake, who stood and followed them out, down the dark passage. He was hit with the cold of the air outside as soon as he left the dank outside, but it was better than sitting on a cold stone floor with dirty water slowly seeping into grey trousers. He stepped away from the door, letting the wind rip through him, but turned quickly when he heard it slam shut. The gaoler had been left inside, and their rescuer was staring contemplatively at the key in his hand. He laughed, glad to be free, and as his eyes met the key thief's, he had the sensation that the stern looking man had most certainly not locked the man inside by accident, despite the innocent look he turned on Éomer, who grinned, clapping him on the shoulder.

They were just about to set off back around the side of the rocky plateau to the front of the hall when Éomer stopped short, staring at Jake. He cringed, feeling extremely alien in his thin and now hugely dirty school uniform. Unfortunately, this just seemed to provoke another burst of laughter from Éomer, who whacked him on the back with a fist the size of a bear's paw.

"D'ou est ce que vous vienez Jake?" _(where do you come from Jake?)_

a/n please review, with sugary cyber sprinkles on top! (Don't tell the dentist)

P.S the last phrase is me trying to say 'Where do you come from Jake?', (rhetorically) but if anyone knows how I can get the 'from' bit in, then please tell me…other mistakes can rest as they are, because he probably knows about as much French as me, because he's in the English school system too, but I would like to get that one ironed out. Thank you!!!

PP.S I'll probably get him to stop talking French next time because it hurts my head, and I don't know if you guys like it or not, so maybe Gandalf can do some mystic type stuff next time. Tell me if you like the lingua franca though.


	5. at the court of the king

A/N Hey fifth chapter. I hope you noticed the translations, because they were really boring to do. OK so next chapter he stops speaking french; I couldn't get it done in this one properly because I have a sister's German exchange in my room, and can't get to my computer.

Their path led back the way Jake had been hauled by the previous set of guards, but instead of entering through the side door Éomer made for the door on the other side of the main entrance. At this the guard made what Jake guessed to be a half hearted attempt to stop him but Éomer barked a few words at him, and he was silent again. Jake was mystified, but when he heard some half screamed whines from inside the building he was moved to ask Éomer what was going on.

He turned and smiled through his rather pronounced scowl, "Une change a vien en Rohan." _(a change has come to Rohan.)_

That was all he would say and they passed into the dark hallway, passing up some roughly cut wooden stairs which joined another, more polished set, then continued to a corridor with three doors. At one Éomer paused, then threw it open and walked in. It was obviously a sleeping room of some sort for guards or something, with four straw pallets on the floor and, at one end a plain, serviceable wooden chest; little more than wooden box with a lock. This, the guard quickly unlocked and stood back while Éomer took out a sword.

It was a beautiful piece of work as far as Jake could judge; heavy but streamlined as Éomer demonstrated with a few experimental lunges. He grinned at the guard who nodded back at him, then sheathed the blade, speaking again in their guttural language. The frown had almost entirely lifted from his features and he was cheered enough to answer Jake's question more fully.

"Cet homme s'appelle Hama, avec il et vous, nous irions finir une certaine ver !"

_(this man is called Hama, with him and you, we will finish a certain worm!)_

Jake had no idea what a ver was, so he wasn't much the wiser, except that now he knew the other guy was called Hama. He said hi to him, which Hama couldn't have understood but must have got the gist of, though he looked at him with distrust, probably wondering why he was dressed in such a strange uniform.

They followed Éomer out the way they had come in, and then entered the main doors. Jake could finally see the real purpose of the building; there was a throne at one end, where a man sat who looked to be about eighty, but badly treated by his years. He was perhaps an invalid, Jake thought, for he was attired in a fur trimmed robe with animal skins bound about his feet in contrast to the cured leather boots of most of the men. There had obviously been a recent struggle in the room, and a druidic man in white, who was perhaps a doctor, was beside his chair, sitting on the topmost step of the raised stone dais. He was talking quietly with what Jake took to be the king, and close by them stood three other men, two stranger than any Jake had seen before. The more normal one was perhaps an inch or so taller than himself, with dark, wiry hair to his shoulders and was dressed in murky brown travel stained clothes. His companions contrasted sharply with each other. One was very tall, more so even than Éomer, though slightly built. He had hair as long as some of the girls back in Barnet, though he had blonder hair than even the peroxides, as they were less than affectionately nicknamed. He turned at their entrance, though the others' attention was focused on the king. He eyed them keenly, recognising Éomer, and nodding to him, passing over Hama with hardly a flicker of interest, but widening with astonishment when they reached Jake. He was made to feel keenly aware of his strange clothes, though there was also disdain in this one's eyes. The last man in the group was very short, with a long beard of matted red hair, his face more wrinkled than the other twos', and sun burnt, as though he was unused to being so exposed to the elements.

The short man was the one with his foot on the back of the squirming dark haired man, slithering under his boot. His hair was matted from a struggle and there was blood on his face, though he didn't seem hurt beyond that. He was staring in horror at the closely huddled King and his advisor. Maybe they were deciding his fate between them; he obviously hadn't had a chance to wash his hair recently so maybe he had indeed been a prisoner like they had. He hoped Éomer was not here to get them both thrown back into the cell.

Others stood further back from the King, around a man who was held to the floor by two of the door wards Jake had been manhandled by earlier. They seemed to be extremely happy, though in a thoroughly shell shocked way. In fact, everyone, with the exception of the prone man and some others who were being restrained around the hall, looked joyful, as though something wonderful had happened. Perhaps the king had been ill and had recovered, and as part of the celebration had freed the prisoners and…and…and had his guards beat up some others. Somehow Jake doubted that, but he was at a loss for a really credible reason. His eyes searched the hall, not only to take in the entirely different approach they had to interior decoration compared to Barnet, but also for a possible cause of a disturbance. At last he saw something; hidden by shadows in the corner behind the throne, a woman in white was staring at the man on the floor, an expression torn between hate and detached confusion. As the door shut behind them with a muted, but just about audible crunch she also looked up from the greasy man on the floor to the newcomers and her face lit up when she saw Éomer. He smiled at her, and Jake wondered whether she was his wife, or sister. She was similar to Éomer, though whether this was because of a sibling likeness or just their racial characteristic he couldn't tell. He didn't really feel qualified to make any assumptions anymore, having landed in a strange land, which he was beginning to suspect was nothing to do with his imagination.

Jake felt Éomer's former palpable tension and anger leave him very suddenly when they entered the hall, and he glanced behind to see the man gazing at the King as the others had been; in utter amazement. But then the old man spoke more loudly, struggling to stand, and there were gasps from around the hall. The druid or whoever he was smiled and said something, in what seemed an encouraging tone of voice and the King nodded, looking around until his eyes fell on the figure being restrained by the short man.

He exploded with rage, and Jake could see now he had stood up and risen above the shadow of the throne that he could not actually be very much older than seventy. Shouting seemed to alleviate his age even more, as his face grew animated. He seemed to be demanding something, though the prisoner could only splutter until the druidic man snapped at the short man, to which he replied by lifting the pressure slightly from the other man's chest so he could speak, though even then he only whined. Jake began to lose all fellow feeling with him; he may have been a prisoner but he could at least have kept some kind of dignity about him. He began to notice other details as well that belied his theory; the rich fur robes and silver chain he wore pointed to him as an influential and powerful member of the court. Not so powerful now, though, that was clear.

Jake looked back to the King as he began shouting again, and was amazed; the man before him certainly wasn't anywhere past late middle age. He had wrinkles, but there looked to be caused by laughter lines rather than advanced years. His hair was far from being white; he had yellow gold hair, untamed yes, but definitely that of a younger man than the crone Jake had first seen. It was almost impossible to believe that shadow could so change a face. The robes hung off him like the fur of an animal after hibernation, his clothes seemed to have been tailored more for ease of wear than any sense of style. He looked, and Jake thought wryly of his English teacher, like Macbeth had put on King Duncan's clothes.

At this juncture, as the king stopped shouting, seemingly lost for words, Éomer chose to step forward. He walked to the dais, stopping a little below the throne, and knelt. Well at least he did not look like he wanted revenge for his accommodation of late, Jake thought with a distinct feeling of relief. There were many warriors standing around the hall, not to mention the three men closer to the throne, and Jake did not think that Éomer, Hama and himself could have withstood even odds of one to one; he doubted it would be a street fight, and he was absolutely defenseless against their cold steel, or whatever metal it was they used for their weapons.

Éomer's words seemed to resonate off the walls as he spoke, though his voice was not overly loud. If there was not already a king here, Jake would have surmised Éomer to be royalty. That, and the fact that no sane person would be able to imprison a member of their family in the place they had just left. He proffered the sword to the King, and there were murmurs of approval around the room at his words and Jake noticed an approving look resting on the druid's face, with grins and smiles from the three travel stained warriors.

The king frowned down at Éomer, and Jake was for a moment afraid he would not take the sword, but then he grasped the hilt and swung it up, brandishing it before him. However the frown was still on his face, and he looked down to glare at Hama. The druid followed the daggers from the Kings eyes and again there was a very faint gleam of amusement in his eyes, but this left immediately when his eyes encountered Jake. It was like having an X-ray carried out without a protective vest, and Jake could feel his insides turn to ice, his muscles clenching in fear. He wasn't a coward, but this unflinching stare was extremely unsettling. Luckily, he was saved by a renewed bout of shouting from the King, and everybody in the hall turned to watch the tableau. It was Hama that was getting the grilling, but he stared proudly up at his ruler, seemingly more pleased that ashamed that he was being told off, though, admittedly, the King seemed more like he was shouting at someone to exercise his Kingly authority than because he was really angry with Hama.

Finally the tirade ended and the King took the sword. It was as though a collective intake of breath had been released, and the woman in white stepped forward impulsively, moving to embrace her brother (cousin? Husband?) but checked herself just in time. As the king held the sword, rearranging his grip, the company seemed to move closer to him, and there were swift movements from around the room as the captives were absentmindedly released by the stunned courtiers as they stared at their King. The greasy man on the floor struggled to stand, the short man also having moved, and crawled into the shadows at the side of the hall. Jake could only acknowledge his subsequent stumbling escape from the extreme periphery of his vision, as the King and Éomer locked gazes, both assessing the other's face for signs of…what Jake did not know. There was palpable tension in the air, far more so than when the King was so openly expressing his anger. A galaxy of emotions flitted over the Kings face as he stared down at Éomer, and to Jake's mind guilt seemed foremost among them. Finally, when the woman beside the thrown looked as though she would break into a million pieces from stress, her shoulders sagged in relief, and though she did not smile, her face relaxed, smoothing the lines that had hung there. The cause of this détente was evident; the King had also relaxed and as Éomer stepped back, he swung the sword shouting in triumph, though Jake could not see over what. His yellow hair blew back from his face as it was moved by the sudden draft which issued from the doors that were now flung open as guards rushed in, swords drawn.

They took in the scene with incredulous eyes, but, their faces breaking into joyful expressions they also hurried to the throne, echoing Éomer's shout with their own, and placing their swords at the King's feet. Everyone in the room was smiling now, even the woman in white, and the room rang with cheers and exclamations of elation, but the King silenced them with a wave of his hand, calling the druid forward, and returning the sword back to Éomer, clapping him on the shoulder with his other hand. Then looking around he spoke again, questioning the assembled throng. The short man spun around, and Jake remembered the escape of the prisoner. The king snapped at Hama, and he ran outside, shouting to the guards that had come into the hall who then followed him out. The crowd backed away from the King, to retake their places at the sides of the hall, one woman returning to the fire pit in the centre of the room, to remove a pot from which issued a distasteful smell, like some kind of herbal tea that his grandfather drank to relieve his rheumatism. Jake wondered who it could be for; an old relative not present here?

The thought of herbal tea, unpleasant though it was, brought him back to the pressing problem of his own hunger. He hadn't eaten for what he judged to be at least a night and day, not counting the school day he had so summarily left. He wondered when Éomer would remember him and address the problem for he must be hungry too. More women entered from a side door and the savoury smell that belonged to those pots drew him like a moth to a flame. His stomach rumbled loudly, and the tall blonde man turned around and grinned, touching the druids shoulder, who looked at Jake with a frown and then answered whatever request the blonde guy had given him. He came over with the really short guy and they gestured to the table. Jake peered round them as best as he could without seeming weird, but Éomer was deep in conversation with the druid, dark haired man and the king, so he sat down and soon was staring at the bottom of an empty bowl on which only flecks of gravy still showed. He swallowed the second bowl of stew slowly enough to taste. It tasted very slightly alcoholic with a rich flavour that belied the stringy texture of the meat. There were thick clumps of what looked to be rice in there, but they were a strange creamy yellow colour.

When he finally looked up, it was to the amused eyes of the blonde man, who had not taken any of the stew and the grimace of the short guy as he tried to chew the stringy meat. The dieter laughed and said something in German, much more fluently than the guard had attempted earlier. Of course, this also meant that Jake couldn't understand a word. He shrugged his shoulders, wary of trying the French that had seemed so dangerous before, but then again, there seemed to be a change in mindset within the hall; fewer spears and more smiles. Éomer would probably get him out of any really difficult situations anyway.

"Je parle seulement elvish" _(I only speak elvish)_ he did not have to wait long for a reaction. The short man dropped his hunk of bread into his bowl, splashing the table with gravy and the tall one leapt up from the bench, over it backwards, landed, turned and shouted to the druid all in one fluid movement. Jake was amazed at the speed of the manoeuvre; executed so incredibly quickly but not upsetting a single splinter of either the table or the bench in the process.

A/N Trala! I hate revision and I hate exams review me now or I'll shut like a clam.

Ahem, I am going crazy. I detest AS levels with every fibre of my being. What's wrong with wanting to be a road sweeper anyway?


	6. knife at the throat

A/N yup, it's revenge of the siXth (chapter), short (sorry) but it seemed a good place to cut off when I reached it. Francophobes will be glad to recognise the language used throughout most of the dialogue. By the way; from this point on the story will follow the book's version of events, so watch out movie fans. Oh, and thank you to all my lovely reviewers. And yes I don't own the Lord of the Rings franchise but I do own Jake.

Jake did not like the look of this situation; the quiet discussion between the druid, King and Éomer had halted immediately and it was apparent that Éomer had forgotten entirely about Jake in seeing the King once more and only now recollected his cell mate. All three hurried over to the table, and the King called for one of the guards, though not one of those he had so briefly spoken to earlier. At the present moment only Éomer had any weapon to be seen and Jake was no longer as sure of his friendship, for the man had a look of suspicion on his face, looking Jake up and down again as though seeing him again for the first time. Jake cursed his timing; if he had just shut his mouth he could have grabbed another bowl of the stew. Also, if he hadn't spoken then, he might never have needed to, and that, a niggling though at the back of his mind was just now suggesting, might have been the best course to take. Every time he tried it he seemed to land himself in greater trouble.

The blonde man was talking very, very quickly in a further language, one that Jake hadn't heard before, unless it was one of the ones' that Éomer had tried and failed to speak to him in. The druid's gaze was far too appraising for comfort, and if he had not been so discouraged by the presence of the newly arrived guard's sword, he would have been sorely tempted to run from the room. As it was his common sense was split two ways; to run would be the most desirable course at the moment but if he waited-therefore avoiding the rather painful sensation of the sword tip jabbing into his back- there might be worse punishment in store.

Luckily for Jake, at that very moment, Hama reappeared, two guards behind him dragging the grease ball between them. The King made a sound not unlike a triumphant 'Ha!" and returned to his throne, regaining his seat with all the majesty of a headmaster about to drill an errant pupil into line. Hama produced a sword, far more decorated than Éomer's had been and passed it over. He gripped it, running his hand over the carvings as if familiarising himself with an old, valuable tool that had been rediscovered behind the lawnmower, and the greasy man squirmed in freshly renewed attempts to relieve himself of the men on either side of him. Jake didn't blame him; the King had a distinctly malicious glee hiding in the lines of his grimace.

However the druid, standing at the table, moved behind the prisoner and Hama, raising his hand in a subtle calming gesture. This seemed sufficient to bring a significant reduction in the King's murderous expression. There followed a dialogue, mainly undertaken by the captive, whose voice varied fluidly between pleading and oily persuasiveness. At length, after Jake had felt safe enough to be able to sit looking longingly at the stew pot, he was suddenly jerked roughly back to the proceedings in hand. The convict was looking sulky, glaring daggers at Éomer who had evidently not been behaving with his best interests at heart, and Éomer was glaring at Jake. The druid and King were also focusing their attention on him, and taking a tentative glance around the room, he saw most of the occupants were doing the same. His insides contracted and his shock at their sudden consideration of him must have shown on his face, for the taller dark man said something to the room that caused it to empty significantly until all that were left were his immediate circle, the King, and the captive with his two minders and Hama.

The druid repeated what had evidently been said to Jake before and he was embarrassed to be unable to do anything to answer him. He was not about to try elvish again, that was for sure. Unfortunately the blond man had not completely forgotten him, and told them, or Jake hoped he told them, that he could speak nothing but elvish, for he at least caught that word in amongst the foreign speech. Éomer nodded his head, still brooding, and Jake had to deal again with all the reactions. The guards must have been surprised, but they had probably heard from Hama about the weirdo who had arrived, and they didn't give any outward reaction. The kings' hands tightened on his throne and he was not the only one to exclaim at the news; the dark haired man and the druid also showed signs of surprise. The prisoner, wearing a look of utter disbelief, renewed his malevolent perusal of Éomer, seeming to think he was lying.

"C'est vrai; est-ce que tu parles seulement elvish?" (_Is it true; do you only speak elvish?)_ Jake nodded miserably and resigned himself to another spell in the under ground cells, but it seemed this was not, immediately at least, to be his fate.

"Pour quoi?" _(Why?) _

Jake considered this question; whether to make up some story about being brought up by elves-though why fairies would bring up a human child he didn't know; surely they weren't any use to them- but the piercing eyes of the druid did not seem to allow him that liberty, and he doubted anyone would believe him anyway. At last he decided on the truth but he need not tell all. There was no call for him to admit _himself_ to the mental asylum.

"Je ne parle pas seulement elvish. Je parle aussi anglais." _(I don't only speak elvish. I also speak English.)_This didn't seem to get him anywhere; his audiences' faces were still entirely blank. "Anglais? This language, the cat sat on the mat etc etc?"

The tiredness was getting to him, or he knew he would never have dared to be so sarcastic. Luckily it didn't result in his immediate execution.

"Actually, I do know that language, and I don't think that in your position you should be so ready to insult King Théoden." Jake nearly jumped of the bench at that himself, though he wouldn't have landed nearly so gracefully as the acrobatic blonde man. The druid could clearly speak English, though he did so with a slight accent. Would he tell the King…King Théoden…about his rudeness?

His only answer was a torrent of the harsh language they all used, and Jake couldn't tell if the other people were being told of his other linguistic skills, or of the need for a permanent termination of them, by the expedient measure of removing his head.

"I have told them what language you speak, though we do not call it English here; it is the language of the North; of the Shirefolk as they call themselves. But you do not look like a hobbit."

If Jake was not very much mistaken, the man was laughing at him. Yet something in his speech seemed familiar… Hobbiton; that was it! The beginning of sir's book! "Bilbo Baggins and his party!"

"What?" darn; he hadn't realized he'd said that aloud. Now others seemed to pick up on his error. Before he could speak again the short man had grabbed the sword off the guard and was holding it at his neck. He growled something at him in yet another tongue, and then, in frustration, shouted something to the druid.

The druid gestured to the short man to put his weapon down, but the temperature of the hall seemed to have been turned down several notches.

"I think we would all like to know what _you_ know of Mr Bilbo Baggins and how you came to know it." The druid's eyes were now dark pits, and his face had lost every hint of any laughter.

Jake didn't know what to think, it was another moment when he wished the toothpaste would just go back into the tube. He stuttered in a desperate attempt to find something to say, and the knife was reapplied to his throat.

"It was in a book; I don't know what it means! I hadn't even heard of hobbits or whatever they are before today, or yesterday, or…"

He was cut off immediately. "You mean you heard of hobbits recently? What plans have you concocted with Wormtongue?" The old man was really angry now, and Jake still had no clue what was wrong, or at least what was wrong specifically.

"Nothing!" He was almost at the end of his tether now. Yes, they were armed and he was not, but he could not stand it; since arriving here, wherever here was, he had been accused of being both mad and criminal, held at spear point, shoved around, put in a cell and now he had a knife at his throat and was being told that he had been plotting with a person whose very name seemed evil.

"I have done absolutely nothing and I have no idea what is going on! You keep asking me questions but you won't answer any-even you wouldn't when I asked what was happened!" He tried to turn his head to glare at Éomer but was stopped by the knife tightened against his skin. This effectively halted his tirade and the fear flooded back in full measure; what would happen to him now if a few words had had him thrown into a cell before?

"This question you must answer, but I promise you that I will answer your questions afterwards, if it is within my power to do so." The anger had partially gone from the druid's face and another gesture prompted the removal of the dagger from his throat. He brought his hand up, and it came away with a few drops of blood on it; the short man would have had his throat opened if he had gone much further.

"I have answered the question about Wormtongue, whoever he is. I've never heard the name before, honestly. I don't know how I got here, and I don't know why the languages I've learnt are the ones they are. All I know is that I have never seen or heard of anywhere like Rohan before, if that's what its name is, and apart from that I am in the dark as much as you are."

He was subjected to another rather too intense stare, but at the end of it there was a smile on the face of the druid; one of relief. Jake couldn't see why _he_ needed to feel relieved that Jake hadn't been plotting, but at least the tide seemed to be turning in his favour once more.

The druid turned to the King again and they began another three way conversation with the prisoner, who Jake could only guess was connected in some way to Wormtongue, perhaps even Wormtongue himself. Both King and prisoner became gradually angrier, and eventually they all went outside, and Jake heard shouts, and the easily distinguishable shout of rage from Éomer. He was glad to be inside, even if one of his companions was the short man who had so recently been ready to cut his throat.

A/n telepaths don't exist, so I won't know if you like or don't like this story unless you REVIEW.

Thank you!


	7. lady temper

Chapter Seven, I do declare! Thank you for all your lovely reviews by the way.

More good news for Francophobes; not only is the language in this chapter all English but from now on, it's here to stay.

From a place of solemnity and judgement the great hall had become a hive of activity. The maidservants were too busy now to tend the stew at the fire, and it had been taken away, much to Jake's disappointment. Luckily the plate of bread and cheeses was left on the table and he was quick to fill his plate with as much as he could, and his tankard received similar treatment with the weak beer they brewed; with a taste like dishwater but probably better than any water, which would, Jake imagined, not be too clean in such a place.

He had been left with the short man, who, it turned out, was in fact a dwarf. That had caused a choking fit, but only preceded another one prompted by the revelation that the blonde man, Legolas, was in fact an elf. He had been rather insulted by Jake's spluttering about fairies, though Gimli had insisted on hearing the entire plot of Midsummer's Dream and laughed heartily whenever Jake could be persuaded to describe Puck. That was before Jake had introduced them to the glories of Snow White, which was, Legolas had said through his laughter, a depiction much more true to a 'real' dwarf than Oberon had been to a 'real' elf. Jake finally despaired of his sanity, and was willing to admit that perhaps common wisdom was, in this case, not entirely fact.

He had also learned other names, and was now able to confidently point out Éomer as the nephew of the King, a relationship doubly important because the relationship was on Éomer's mother's side. The dark haired man was Aragorn, whom the two seemed to disagree on how to describe, but Jake eventually gathered was some kind of tracker, but also a member of the nobility in some way. He was talking with the King, Éomer, and Gandalf, the druid or wizard as he was more rightly known, in the privacy of the King's room, a kind of study. Legolas politely declined to comment on what they were talking of, apart from a battle plan but Gimli was less discreet. "They're talking about what to do with you, lad, and I'd not be thinking that you'll be coming with us, seeing as you're can't use a sword or do anything useful."

The idea that he was entirely useless because he couldn't use weapons was doubted by no one, it seemed. They had all been using weapons since they were tiny and were amazed that he, a boy of seventeen, had never held a sword or drawn a bow. They couldn't grasp the concept that he hadn't needed to, or been able to do, anything of the sort. There was evidently some kind of universal danger here in Arda, as they called it, a 'darkness spreading across the land' or something, and he had to admit that when they described the adversaries they would face, the 'orcs', Jake couldn't quite stop his imagination from roaming. The battle they had ahead of them seemed unreal to him, as though they would ride off, some would split and go elsewhere, and the others would come riding back. The battle experience he's had was all through a plastic screen; violence in Iraq, under the rules of dictators in Africa, in history books about the Far East. None of it was really any more than a half heard conversation over the radio or a dispassionate item diplomatically worded by Trevor McDonald or some other pristine newsreader.

Despite the maids running to and fro, servants packing up kits of bandages and herbs and warriors coming in with armloads of arrows from the fletcher, he still didn't know whether he would be going or not. The excited chatter was all alien to him and if it were not for Legolas and Gimli, who were ready to leave at a moments notice, sitting with him he would not have known anything at all. Gandalf had gifted him with a small, nondescript brown stone, and if Jake concentrated, then whatever language was being spoken would be understandable to him, and equally, so would his speech. He still could not understand if many people were speaking at once, or if his attention was divided but it was certainly better than nothing.

As it was, Legolas and Gimli told him what had been happening in Rohan in order for the prince to be locked up.

Gimli was eager to start, and Jake suspected him of being one of those people who adore the sound of their own opinion, though are not arrogant, in any practical sense of the word.

"Well, that Wormtongue, him who was thrown out of Edoras, you know the one,"

"The greaseball?" the dwarf laughed loudly at this, and even Legolas was willing to smile, though less ready to laugh than his companion.

"Indeed you're right, lad, that's the best word for anyone I've heard in a long time, though it sounds strange on the tongue. Anyway, this greaseball serves Saruman,"

"Saruman?"

"You know; Saruman, the _wizard_ Saruman." Despite the implication of the tone; that he was entirely without a brain, Jake couldn't help his ignorance.

"You mean Gandalf?"

"No!_ Saruman_, of Isengard! The _traitor _Saruman."

"Oh, yes." Jake had no idea at all, but he thought he got he gist of it; Saruman bad, Gandalf good.

"Well Saruman sent greaseball here to spy out Théoden King's land, and he did that and more. Saruman was using the man's mind to corrupt the nation, and I'll not gossip but that his reward wouldn't be Lady Éowyn when the time came."

Legolas snorted, as though he thought Gimli was gossiping and the dwarf put down his beer with a decided clunk.

"And what, master elf do you think so unreasonable about my notion. Did you not see how she was looking at him? Did you not see how Éomer…"

"I did indeed, but I don't think you have any right to continue the circulation of the story. It's hardly any of our concern."

"Look here pointy ears, who's going to hear? Not many of these people can speak the common tongue. It's not as if…"

He was cut off again by Legolas and Jake hastened to stop any argument that might break out.

"Who's Éowyn?"

They both looked around to stare at him, and he was struck by their differences. It didn't seem right to call them different species, but he couldn't think of a better word for it. They were just so unalike. Gimli sprouted a massive, rusty coloured beard of matted hair that almost hid his eyes by joining up with eyebrows that would have put Pavarotti to shame. His clothing covered a great deal of bulk, which Jake had no doubt was muscle but it was entirely different to the muscle of Legolas. His physique, though still that of a fighter if Jake's idea of it was correct, was carried with balletic elegance of movement and his shoulder length blonde hair was tied efficiently back from his face by braids that circled around his head.

Gimli snorted into his ale at Jake's stupidity and Legolas sighed heavily. Jake got the feeling he was used to knowing more than other people, and that his patience was often tested.

"Éowyn," he began slowly, "is the sister of Eomer and the niece of Théoden King. She was in here when you arrived; behind the throne remember?"

Light dawned; "the lady in white!"

"Indeed she is often called the white lady of Rohan, or so I am told by Aragorn. She's a shield maiden."

Jake was forced once again to stare blankly at him.

"She fights, Lad." Gimli had raised his beard from his tankard sufficiently to deliver the three words in such a tone that Jake could almost feel the glue from the 'Imbecile' sign stuck to his forehead.

Did everyone here fight? He had thought that the women who were hurrying to and fro with more arrows and sharpened swords were merely helping prepare the men-not go with them. He turned to stare at them. Were they going to fight in those long skirts? It must be awfully difficult. Catching the sharp eye of one of them he turned quickly back to the elf and dwarf. They were wearing expressions that, despite the variance of their features, were absolutely identical. Both had scarcely suppressed grins and Gimli 's eyes at least were so crinkled into his laughter lines that they were barely distinguishable, though that could just have been the rampant wind burn he sported.

Finally he was forced to let go his restraint, and let forth such a belly laugh that the people nearest them swung around in surprise.

"They're not fighters Lad! The look on your face…you were…" he couldn't continue and took a mouthful of ale to calm himself down. It didn't work and the table top was sprayed with the weak alcohol as his laughter seized control of him. Even Legolas was smiling slightly.

"I couldn't help it; how could I possibly know?" but the laughter was dangerously infectious and as he thought back to the woman who had glared at him, he couldn't help comparing her to a more weathered version of one of his textiles teachers. He grinned too, and was rewarded by Gimli leaning over the table to slap his shoulder.

"There we go, I knew you couldn't lack a brain and a sense of humour!" his grin widened again, "but fancy thinking the Rohirrim would send women into battle, I mean…"

He cut himself off directly, and Jake turned to find himself looking up into the face of the angriest women he had ever seen.

Legolas coughed, "Ah, my lady Éowyn!"

Please tune in next time for….more of the same and an encounter with a very irritated Éowyn!

P.S please R&R.


	8. farewells & unpleasant introductions

A/N Chapter 8; thank you to all my lovely reviewers. Merci beaucoup. I've done my french oral, so I don't need to think about dialogue anymore…however my Italian oral's next week so maybe…

No I would not be so cruel to those people who have been so nice to me. Enjoy.

"Uncle, I cannot allow this to happen. We do not know enough about him, what if he is another of Saruman's fiends come to cause more havoc, what if…"

Éomer was cut off in the middle of the tirade by the King, who was staring at his nephew in astonishment. "Sister-son," he said gently, "Your sister will be guarded by a full century of warriors to protect her. What could happen?"

His reply was an enraged sigh, "My liege," Éomer began in a voice of forced calm, "While you were…indisposed, my sister was in the gravest danger every moment _he_ was here. She is no longer a little girl; if you had seen her when the news of Theodred was brought…" He broke off, unable to put into words the feelings Éowyn had held for Theodred, that of cousin and of intended. Although never said, it had been considered certain that the alliance between the cousins could do nothing but strengthen the horse lords, and neither party had proved indifferent. His sister had not shed a tear, but her eyes had been strained for days, and Éomer had been told by the housekeeper that she had not slept for several nights running.

Perhaps that had contributed to his eagerness to help those who lived on the great plains of Rohan. A desire to leave the court where a King lay dormant and a serpent gave orders while keeping his beaded eyes fixed on the form of his sister, for whom there was nothing he could do. Never would he betray the oath he had taken as third marshal of the Riddermark; to obey his liege lord in all things, so there was nothing, nothing at all, that he could do to protect Éowyn, as she clung to stubbornly to the bars of her ice cage, her imprisonment caused as much by herself as by anything else.

As he stood before his uncle now, the same dormant King, the same liege lord he had sworn to serve, he was filled with ice himself. Ice and fire. He would hate to see his sister take to the battlefield against such a foul enemy as they would face, despite the thought that she would hold herself as well as most of the men in his éored, yet he would not have her stay while a man he did not know was given free rein within the halls of Edoras, even if he had the look of one who was not in possession of his eighteenth summer. They were worst at that age; he had certainly been terrible. No, the boy could not come with them; if he was a spy of Saruman then he could do nothing but mischief with them, and Théoden would not consent to have him returned to the dungeon. He must stay with Éowyn, though it was not to his liking. He bowed, curtly and abruptly, turned and went from the room. At his sides, his fists were clenched and his anger was controlled only by the thinnest of veneers.

All thoughts of fellowship with his ex cell mate were gone. His sister was the only remainder of his close family and he was not going to lose her to another of Saruman's spies. His thoughts could not leave the idea of the convenience of Jake's arrival just when Wormtongue was found out and expelled, but he would not go against his liege Lord. He had not turned on him throughout Worm tongue's dominance; why would he do so now.

When he entered the great hall he stopped short; had the boy started making trouble with his sister already? She was standing at the table where Legolas, Gimli and Jake had elected to sit and she looked absolutely livid. Her face was white and there were two spots of red on the apples of her cheeks. She was glaring down at the three where they sat, and it looked like that elf was trying to reason with her. As he approached he could hear her voice; as close to shouting as it was possible to get while still maintaining, in theory, a ladylike address.

"Well, he can speak properly now can't he? So he can help. I have enough to do with getting everybody else ready without people sitting around tables nursing their beer! I should think you would show some kind of…"

He approached and stood beside her, unable to resist shooting a black glance at Jake.

"What's wrong?"

"Éomer!" she seized his arm, giving him a quick hug. Let's ride together shall we?"

Éomer groaned inwardly; nobody had told her.

"Sister, look, Rohan needs someone to sit the throne of the hall," she stared up at him, face whiter than ever.

"Éomer, our uncle sits the throne. We'll win, we'll win together. He doesn't need me to look after Meduseld while he's gone. We'll keep the orcs away from here until there no danger at all. He doesn't need…" He shook his head, unable to answer her desperation with an answer she would welcome.

"Éowyn, you know you cannot come with us."

She was blinking rapidly; never a good sign. He sighed; when would his sister learn that she must stay somewhere safe, that none of her relations would countenance any other role for her than that of a gentlewoman?

"You know I am as good as, no! I am better than most of the men." She hissed at him, raising her voice so heads turned around the hall. "I can fight. You won't shut me away here!" Everyone in the hall was staring at the siblings now. Éowyn looked like she would hit him, and Éomer did not consider it cowardly that he had backed away slightly.

"Éowyn; I know you can fight, and so does our Uncle, but,"

"But what then? If you know I can fight then I shall. We need every man we have to fight Saruman's evil." She stared up at him, challenging him, but he could not give into her. The mention of what they were to face only strengthened his resolve to leave her behind.

"Exactly; every _man_! You must stay here. They need you here."

"I am needed there too!" her voice cracked and her brother could tell that she was on the brink of losing the last vestiges of her composure. He didn't know what else to say to persuade her out of it, but he realised she was not looking at him anymore anyway.

"My lord Aragorn; do you not need every warrior to fight?" Éomer turned to see the future King of Gondor behind him, and he grimaced at him, his face hidden from his sister's.

"My lady, we do need every warrior," her face lightened, and Éomer raised his eyebrows in disbelief, "But some must fight in different battles, bringing a different kind of honour to their name. You must remain here in Edoras to look after your people."

She glanced from face to face in horrified realisation that she could do nothing that would allow her to come, then, unable to hold her composure for another minute she grabbed up a pile of blankets from a nearby table, covering her face, and almost ran from the room, scattering servants in her wake.

Éomer sighed; his sister would never be able to follow her dreams, but. With a flush of anger as he turned back to the table and saw Jake, he would make sure she lived to realise it. As Aragorn collected his companions to check their hoses and gather the extra ration and other necessaries that had been given them, Éomer seated himself in Legolas's vacated place and leaned towards Jake.

"You," he snarled, "Will obey my sister in everything. And if I return and find she has been harmed in the slightest degree, you will pay for it with your life; be sure of that!" He jerked up from the bench again and left a staring Jake behind, unsure of his place and even more worried about the lack of a friendly face around him.

As dawn touched the furthest peaks of the distant mountains, the column of riders left the city. Wives, mothers, children, sweethearts, all thronged the walkways on top of the palisade walls, weeping and cheering in the same breath. The King rode at the head of the file, with Gandalf and Aragorn, while Éomer rode slightly behind with his subordinate, Eothain. Gimli and Legolas could be seen riding together on the same horse, a blonde head among the helmets.

Jake wasn't sure how to act. It felt false to mimic those cheering them on, for he did not know where they went, or what they would find when they got there. Although he had seen nothing to suggest they were heading off to slaughter innocents that would not be unlike the Viking legendary he had heard in primary school and he did not want to ask unless his fears were confirmed. As it was, his stance was similar to the Lady Eowyn's beside him, who stared as the rising sun caught the spear tips, stared so hard that it seemed she was trying to transport herself to her Uncle's side, forsaking her white gown for armour, and her coronet for warrior braids. She stayed staring off into the distance until the army could not be seen even as a black speck on the horizon.

His desire was opposite to hers. She wanted to fight; he wanted, well, not to flee exactly, but preferably to stay alive. There was no way he could ever have held his own in a swordfight, or survived five minutes in a mounted charge. It was better that he be left here, nearer the place he had arrived, nearer to food and shelter, and farther from these enemies they talked about; orcs, or some such.

A pincer grip on his upper arm brought him out of his reverie. The sun was almost directly above his head, though it gave out little heat compared to the woman beside him. Éowyn had finally ceased her perusal of the horizon and, looking down into the town Jake could see the women were now talking in small huddles or as busy about their business as the day he had arrived.

"I asked you what trade you were brought up to!" Jake blanched. Eowyn's fingers, he was sure, had raised a bruise of his arm, and her glare was unlikely to do him much good either.

"Uh, trade?" he questioned, hoping she wasn't going to take out all her frustration on him.

"Trade; what work can you do. Or are you totally useless?" It seemed his prayers were not answered; he was definitely going to be her punch bag whether he liked it or not. As his silence continued she turned to sarcasm as her weapon of choice.

"Were you a fletcher? A miller? A village idiot?"

Well thought Jake, Aragorn was right; not all killing was done on a battle field. She obviously took his words to heart.

"I was, uh, I was a good runner." It was the best he could come up with, for with a certainty he didn't have any other useful skills.

"A runner? What a thing to be proud of; a coward!" She half turned away; dismissing him, but this last sally was more than Jake could accept, even from a lady.

"I was considered one of the best in my school! I won the county cup at speed! I have medals from it; where I come from we didn't need to fight, we…"

Eowyn's face had lost its paleness; unfortunately it had now been replaced with an angry crimson.

"Right. I don't want to hear anything more. If that's your only talent, then you can go and do something useful. Seorwyn!" she turned to the open doors behind them. "Seorwyn!"

An older woman hurried out, perhaps in her late forties, and he was handed over to her. With a sinking heart he realised it was the woman who had caught him staring at the servants before.

"Seorwyn, this boy is to join the message runners."

The housekeeper looked him up and down, assessing him rather too thoroughly for Jake's liking. "He's a bit old for that, in't he milady?"

"Nevertheless; that's all he's fit for, so he had better do it well. Set him to anything that needs doing." She turned and strode into the great hall, heading towards the council chamber where the King had retreated to with Gandalf earlier presumably to decide his fate, and he gloomily trudged after the bustling grey skirts of Seorwyn.

A/N I chose the housekeepers name because it sounded like 'Sour one', a choice which should soon become self explanatory if it is not so already.

Lonely, the review button's so lonely; it has nobody, so please press it…

(Sing along with actions kiddies.)


	9. new wardrobe

A/N Chapter 9 at last, in which Jake finds a friend (sort of) and has to cope with the difficulties of a girl's wardrobe. Thank you to all the lovely, lovely, lovely reviewers, both named and anonymous.

He was led into the kitchen, where the women who had been standing in small groups, looking as lost as those outside, scattered back to various tasks, taking care not to catch Seorwyn's eye as she led Jake around the floury tables and past cavernous fireplaces where spits hung untended and fires unlit. They passed through a doorway and encountered clouds of steam, which Seorwyn disappeared into as confidently as if the room had empty, and as he hurried after her he passed shadowy figures through the gloom, a strong scent burning his nostrils and the dense clouds leaving warm perspiration on his skin. Another doorway was soon behind them and they encountered a flight of stairs which Jake followed the housekeeper up, almost tripping over heavy burlap sacks as he went. The place was a rabbit warren of corridors, all of which, he had to remind himself, was undercut by the dungeons he had so recently been a guest in. Other, younger boys occasionally passed them, standing aside for Seorwyn but barrelling into Jake more often than not. How they knew their way was a mystery to Jake, for he had passed many doors, other staircases and further passages. Finally they reached a long low room with chests lining the walls, akin to the one from which Éomer had retrieved his sword.

Seorwyn walked along the row and then unhesitatingly unlocked one about ten from the door on the left. She pulled out a loose, undyed shirt, then what looked, rather unsettlingly, to be a pinafore type dress, tights and soft, floppy boots. Piling them up she shoved them at Jake.

"You'll sleep with the other boys in the attic above this, go now and dress, then report back to the kitchens. Quickly!" she strode off and all he could do was to go in the direction of the narrow spiral stairs at the other end of the room. As it was they were hardly needed; he could almost have pulled himself up through the narrow square and into the room before. Instinctively, he protected his head with his hands, thereby saving himself from concussion and peered into the gloom.

As far as he could tell it was empty, and once his eyes got used to it, lighter than the unlit corridors he had just come from. There must have been holes in the thatch which the light was shining through, and twitterings suggesting nesting birds as well. There were very thin mattresses on the floor, seemingly made of straw with linen stretched over them, and by most there were small bundles; the personal belongings of his dorm mates, he guessed. He couldn't tell whether any were uninhabited, so he refrained from placing his own pile of modern clothing by any of them and instead settled down to the task of dressing. It proved more difficult than he had thought, as he had never had occasion to put tights on before, or a dress. Most of the garments were of undyed cloth, natural browns and greys prevailing. The dress was easy, going on, as far as he could tell, over the shirt, with a kind of attached cape that covered the arm holes and shoulders. He struggling with the tights, but finally, by balancing very carefully on one foot he was able to insert the other foot into the opening. He had, by dint of great effort, just managed to cover one whole leg when he discovered he had left himself the impossible task of filling the other stocking while the opening was right at the top of his unclad leg. How did girls do this every day? It was absolutely hellish!

Even by raising his leg the highest it could go it still would not reach the intended aperture, and by this time he fancied the shirt was beginning to feel too warm, and sweat was trickling down his spine. Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever he overbalanced and with a loud crash found himself sitting on one of the scratchy mattresses. Worse than that was the dagger now levelled at his throat.

"You move and I'll gut you like a rabbit!" Obligingly, Jake froze. There was a boy, perhaps a little younger than him, with one knee pressed onto his ribs and a scowl on his face. His cheeks were dirty, and his clothes couldn't have been called pristine either, not to mention the relationship he had with soap; presumably it had dwindled to letter writing by the smell of it. Nevertheless, the knife was a more important matter at the moment.

"What were you doing then, looking through our stuff? What are you a thief?" the knife had been withdrawn slightly, as his victim had not retaliated in kind.

"Seorwyn told me to come up here and change." Jake choked out, his eyes on the rather rusty blade the boy held.

"Seorwyn?" the knife was removed entirely and the pressure was withdrawn from his ribcage, allowing Jake to sit up. "What, are you a new boy then?"

"I suppose." Jake was trying to gauge the system; what would gain him entry to the circle of these messengers, and what would result in banishment to the worst chores without a friendly face to talk to all day.

The other boy, secure in his fully established role had no such qualms. "Where you from then?"

"An island, up north." That had been his story so far; that was what he would stick to. Even Gandalf had required no other explanation in the hurry of the army leaving. He saw no reason whatsoever to try any other course of action, and certainly he didn't want to go anywhere near the truth. A boy at school had seen things a bit differently from the others and he had left the following term, without having made a single friend, and that was putting it politely; the number of enemies had been magnified by the simple truth that everyone was happy to have someone around who could be their punch bag when they fell out of favour with friends.

"Up North? You're a bit out of your way here aren't you? How do I know your not one of Grima's spies, hiding here until the fuss dies down. We all know what happened yesterday!"

"Well Gandalf doesn't think I am." The name dropping seemed to work. The boy wore a slightly awed expression. "You know Gandalf Greyhame? You know the wizard who rides Shadowfax? You lie!" it was more an exclamation than an accusation, and Jake took it to mean that he was no longer 'the new boy' but the 'new guy'; of equal standing with the locals and one who would be respected.

"Oh Gandalf and me go way back, and I know Éomer quite well too." He knew and the other boy knew that he was lying through his teeth but as the rules go, this only raised his standing; the new guy not only had connections but he was sharp too.

His companion got up and leaned against the wall as nonchalantly as he could in the slanted ceilinged room, while Jake lent back onto the roofed side, stretching out his legs. Unfortunately, this revealed his rather embarrassing dressing difficulties, and the other boy raised his eyebrows.

"Trouble?" Jake looked down.

"Well we don't wear the same stuff up North." He said defensively, glaring at the offending tights, and gesturing across to his discarded school uniform. The boy's eyes widened and he reached down and plucked one of the shoes off the floor.

"What's this then? A poncy pair of shoes? What are you; a prince in hiding or something?"

"No, that's what we all wear up there." Jake hoped desperately the boy wouldn't notice any of the obvious details that made the shoe patently not medieval, or whatever period they were in. Unfortunately, the boy had seized on the shoelaces almost straight away.

"What are these made of?" Jake frantically glanced around the room looking for inspiration.

"Whiskers!"

"What?"

"Yeah, uh whiskers," Jake cursed himself as the mouse ran back under one of the mattresses. "From large cats. Uh, very large cats. Huge."

"I've never heard of them." He was turning the laces over and over in his hands, "and these are braided!"

"Yeah, well they're not that big, we have to put several together to make one lace."  
"Just a minute, let me get this straight. You live on an island, up north?"

"Yes"

"Where giant cats live?"

"Yes"

"Which you catch?"

"Yes"

"But you have to catch lots of cats to get lots of whiskers to make one string to tie your shoes with? Is that not a bit stupid?" Jake groaned inwardly; this boy was no fool. However he replied as nonchalantly as he could.

"They were a present, from my father." True; his father had bought him these shoes, what he would say if anyone ever asked him to go hunt big cats was another matter.

This, at last, seemed to subdue the boy. "My father's gone to war. With my brothers." Jake felt awkward; was he supposed to comfort him, to say it would all be okay? Thankfully for him, his concern was misdirected. "I was too young to go. It's so unfair." His crestfallen attitude was due only to his exclusion from what he evidently viewed as attractive a trip as Lady Éowyn had done. He was not to be downtrodden long though, and after a few moments raised his head.

"I'm Brasfain son of Brasfer by the way. Who are you?"

"Uh, I'm Jake" he paused; the other boy was waiting for something else and with a stab of panic he realised he was supposed to produce a father's name similar to his own. "Son of Jakir!" he said triumphantly, after several moments thought.

"Jakir? It sounds strange on the tongue. Is it painful for you to speak of him; you did not seem eager to speak his name?"

Jake stared at him, debating. If his father was dead, which he would have to be, or otherwise he would probably have been in the city, it would be perfectly expected that he should not wish to talk about it.

"Yes, very painful; he died when I was smaller, I do not remember him well." It was clear by Brasfain's face that he had many other questions but he refrained from asking them, instead pushing aside a little more straw to check the sunlight outside.

"Seorwyn will be wondering where you got to; the sun is on the wane. We had better get back down or she'll have our ears. Come on."

Jake stood up, then remembered his new wardrobe. "Uh, Brasfain?"

A/n hope you like my new OCs. Plot coming soon.

Now; AMAZING NEW FACT; that mauve button down there is the newest way of eating chocolate# and when pressed it will automatically transfer a warm fuzzy feeling on a nearby author. (Or a hotter flamey feeling depending on whether it is milk or bitter chocolate)

#some scientists say


	10. a blush and whispers in the dark

A/N Chapter 10; thanks to my superlative reviewers. I am overjoyed by the feedback, which encourages me enormously. To be honest, the more chapters I write, the less revision I do, which probably isn't a good thing, but I do my revision at my desk, in front of my computer, so it can't be helped. Therefore, think of this; If I fail I can blame it on creative spark, rather than my own stupidity 

The work in Meduseld, as he learnt to call his new home, was demanding and for the most part physical. With no knowledge of the language apart from what he slowly picked up as he and others spoke, and understanding only with the help of the stone given him by Gandalf, it was small wonder that he was not set to any clerical work. Instead he learnt his way around the rabbit warren of the hall, where the large throne room was the hub of activity but the structure around as riddled with passages as some of the biscuits were with maggots.

He was not disliked by the other boys as far as he could tell, but they regarded him as an outsider, and it was only with Brasfain's help that he was included at all. The younger boy was happy to have someone willing to listen to his life story, as all the other messengers had grown up with him and knew him as well, almost, as he did himself. His natural curiosity prompted him to question Jake as well, but despite the fact that at times it was like being under the onslaught of the Spanish inquisition, he was able to answer most with noncommittal shrugs. He was lucky that Brasfain was so ready to accept his new companion's mysteries, and so eager to speak about himself, for this way he was able to armour himself against other, less easygoing examiners.

Although he saw Éowyn around Meduseld she showed no sign of recognition apart from irritated glances in his direction when he failed to carry soup to the hall without spilling any, or some such slip. He was not keen to remember himself to her, in fact, was keen to do exactly the opposite. With Seorwyn breathing down his neck all day, he was quite busy enough, and almost ready to believe the stories the other boys shared before sleeping, of fire breathing dragons and other monsters. These battled brave Rohirric warriors or more unusually elves. Apparently there was an elf witch in one of the forests, and Legolas and his companions had come bearing word of her. Jake's status briefly soared when he said he had spoken to the strange visitors, but it was soon pushed aside by a boy from one of the further villages whose family had fled to Edoras after wargs of Isengard attacked them. A blow by blow account was required of the boy who, as his story wound on, described his own personal battle against one of the wol f like creatures, where he had saved his mother and sisters by killing three opponents simultaneously. Jake grinned in the dark; the Rohirrim seemed little given to suspicion, and although he suspected that this story would not have passed muster were it not night time and they were not so young all the other's were fixed on the storyteller. Despite the clear belief by some of them in such feats there did not seem to be any other faith- he found little mention of religion there either, though occasionally one would curse using what he could only guess to be a name, as it was not translated by the stone.

They were, however, almost religiously fanatic about their horses. Brasfain would talk for hours of horses he had known, praising Éomer's horse, Firefoot and many other mounts. Jake learnt how important the Mearas were; the lords of horses as Brasfain called them. Despite his young age he was an expert on horse breeding and could recite Shadowfax's list of dam and sire ancestry back further than his own, for he knew that only to the sixth generation. Admittedly, all his forefathers seemed to have variations on the same name, but it was still impressive. Every one on the household staff held a favourable opinion on horses, and he was surprised to hear conversations in the kitchens, about the maids' young men including whether they owned a horse in the family, as well as other factors, like appearance and the characters of potential mothers in law.

Indeed, the kitchen girls were often the best source of information besides Brasfain. Jake was daily sent to perform any particularly heavy or unpleasant task in there, as great quantities of food from the meagre stores were prepared each day for the many refugees. He was set to preparing barley meal, which he had since learnt was the rice like lumps in his stew on the first day, and cutting up meat which was too ripe for anything other than a herby stew. Food, although there was enough to go around, was not plentiful in this time of war and many of the maids complained about the toughness of some of the meat, the age of the vegetables and the constant supply of limp cabbages from one rather single minded grocer. Fuel -mainly peat due to the lack of trees- was constantly needed and he would pick up snatches of the girls talk as he went to and fro.

"…and he said to me; you go and stay with me mother while me and Da are off to war, and I says 'not I' for the woman's nought but a slave driver. She's worse than Seorwyn, I can tell you. Why the other day…"

"I'm sure it's not going to be ready in time for the dance, for there's three more seams to sew, and that's just the under skirt so…"

"It wasn't me, I can promise you that, for when I heard what she said I was right shocked, so I was, and I would have come straight to you but…"

The women pad no attention to him, for although they would smile and slip the younger boys a bit of bread or a honey cake, Jake seemed to be too old to interest them, and he had to admit even to himself, that he wasn't much compared to the men he had seen leave for war, who could ride, fight and speak Rohirric. He was free to come and go as he pleased, or at least listen as he pleased, for if Seorwyn caught him with nothing to do there would be hell to pay. She swept around the halls like an ugly goose, hissing at anyone who she thought was idle, and criticizing their work. There were cuffs and sharp words for any boy who came near her, and many of the younger girls were terrified of her. One girl, by the look of her a country refugee, was reduced to tears when it emerged that she had chopped the carrots without peeling them first. She had never seen any before, poor as her family had been and she simply hadn't realised she was supposed to remove the outer layer of tough skin as well as the mud. Jake had heard her hiccoughing afterwards, the podgy arm of one of the bake-cooks wrapped around her shoulder, explaining that they had always eaten everything in its skin, because her mother didn't let them waste anything.

It was clear that she wouldn't be doing any more cooking that day, as she couldn't hold her knife without her hand shaking and jumped violently when anyone walked behind her. She was handed over to Jake to 'see down the hill' to where her younger brother and invalid mother were staying and they walked in silence through the maze of houses, mainly made of mud bricks, due again to the lack of wood. Jake racked his brains for a way to break the silence but couldn't think what to say. He didn't want to ask about her family, having heard her tell the bake-cook that her mother was crippled, and not wishing to seem rude by bringing the subject up. Desperate, he commented on the goods that the few stallholders were now packing away in the market place, asking which one of the ornately carved spoons she preferred and asking what she thought of some bits of lace that a rosy cheeked woman was selling. Unfortunately, his companion was painfully shy and although Jake even ventured to ask what the lace was for, as he hadn't seen anybody wearing any, she would only blush and stare at the ground they walked over. However, she had obviously not found his company repulsive, for at the door of their room she hesitantly invited him inside to meet her Ma and brother.

Although Jake had found it difficult to make conversation whilst they walked, the homely atmosphere that had been created in the one room they had been given was a welcome change from the bustle of the hall. The mother offered him a glass of water, all she had at present as all the refugees ate at the hall, and was overwhelmingly grateful for his escort. She informed him, in a friendly way that he didn't look like he was getting enough food, bemoaning the shortages in her next sentence. The little brother was very sweet, though his round eyed stare was slightly unnerving. Gertwyr, now completely recovered from her nervous state, asked politely whether he had any relatives in the town, and her mother chimed in as well, wondering if he had any brothers, as the little boy, Gerthwig, was on his own too much with her, ruffling his curly blonde hair as she spoke, at which he wrinkled his nose.

Feeling sorry for him, Jake promised to come and play with the five year old whenever he had time, saying he would bring Brasfain as well, though he was forced by their questions to admit to his lack of family. Gratitude was showered upon him once more for his kindness, though now it was tempered with pity, for although she was crippled, the mother was quick to remark upon the need of everyone for the love of a family. Such was her smothering concern for his wellbeing he was barely allowed to escape in time to avoid being late to help serve the evening meal.

When he left the room, Gerthwig followed him down the stairs, clutching a much chewed wooden model of a horse.

"You have to be nice to my sister." The big eyes were fixed on Jake's face, two sparks of determination and stubbornness.

Taken aback by his truculent manner, Jake smiled, "I'll try"

"You got to do more than that. My Da and my big brother said that I was to look after my sister, 'cos there not here to do it themselves. So if you're nasty to her I shall cut your head off.

Jake had to hide his laughter, coughing to cover it. Gerthwig's serious face was so funny when you considered that all he had done was walk Gertwyr home on the request of a bake cook, and even then had shown no interest in her at all. She could only be fifteen, and not overly attractive in any obvious way, but he did not want to disappoint so earnest a guardian as Gerthwig either so, solemnly, he laid a hand over his heart in what he hoped was a noble stance. Bowing he said, "Master Gerthwig, I shall treat your sister with nothing but respect."

He privately added a reminder to himself; do not let the boy have any sharp objects. If this was the way a five year old reacted, it was probably a good thing that the kitchen maids didn't seem to find him attractive in the least.

Their room was in a public house near the gates, mainly empty as most of the men had left, so Jake had quite a way to go to get back, and was not entirely sure of the way, not having explored the town at all. Gertwyr had led him there, but her mother would have a meal prepared by the innkeep, as she was unable to walk the distance up the hill, and Jake was obliged to ask for directions. Not finding anyone in the bar he went outside, unwilling to go back and ask the little family, who would surely feel obliged to send Gertwyr back with him. At the gate he could see the silhouettes of guards, and hoping this encounter would go better than the last walked up behind them to ask. The words were on the brink of spilling from his tongue when he picked up a conversation nearby. Hopeful of avoiding asking an armed warrior the way back to the hall, he searched the shadows of the buildings and located the men.

They were almost entirely hidden by the looming shadow of the inn's straw roof and he could only grasp snatches of their conversation, as the words were whispered. He had been lucky to hear them at all.

"And I say it'll be all right! Look, if she's not here, and he doesn't come back…"

"But how do we know he won't?" the second voice was flatter, and deeper than the first, more nervous than cunning, as the first had been. On reflection, Jake did not think it wise to enquire for directions from them, but their words drew him in, so, keeping as close to the shadows of the opposite building as possible he lingered unmoving.

"….you know how powerful…Saruman's army…rats in a trap…Grima said so…" Cunning's voice was full of barely concealed impatience, and Jake suspected that he was much cleverer than Nervous was.

"…still a guard…and she can fight…as bad as her brother…"

"…outside the city…no one will hear her!" This last was expelled more loudly in exasperation and the speaker glanced towards the guard. The two parted and slipped off, going separate ways when they reached the end of the street.

Jake didn't know what to make of the conversation. He didn't know the laws here, but he was sure that what they were planning would break at least one, yet he did not wish to jump to a conclusion over quickly, after all, he did not really know what they wished to do. As he stumbled through the dark streets, relying on the noise of the evening meal to draw him home he ran the words over and over in his mind. More than once he was only saved from walking into a wall at the last instant, and by the time he reached the doors he was too muddy to go into the hall, having tripped twice on the dirt streets.

Instead he grabbed a hunk of bread and some cheese as he passed through the kitchen and stumbled up the stairs to his pallet. No one was there yet so he was able to consume his supper in peace, savouring the tang of the yellow cheese and the crusty freshness of the bread. By the time he had undressed to the nightshirt he had been given, the conversation was forgotten among the other memories of the day. The fatigue of his duties was far worse than after a football practice and the strangeness of the entirely alien culture was very wearing. On several nights he had dreamt of school and his family, not missing them as such but seeing them as vague shadows at the edge of his vision. No feeling was attached and he was happy enough here, perhaps happier than at some moments in what he still though of as his 'normal' life. Admittedly, those moments included maths lessons, but as he swallowed the last chunks of bread he had to admit there were many benefits to this life.

It was not until one of the boys was telling a tale about yet another fair maiden being rescued by a brave rider that he remembered the men and their sinister words.

Hey; you've sent me more than 50 reviews! Need I ask what I want you to do in exchange for me writing this chapter…? (Yes I do; REVIEW please)


	11. swords and mutterings

Chapter 11; in which there is hammering on anvils and plotting most foul.

That morning, there seemed to be especial hustle about the kitchens, for a large procession of new refugees had arrived. Brasfain and Jake were sent to the armoury to ask the blacksmith to sharpen the old weapons he had there so the new arrivals could bolster the guard, down to a skeleton shift now the army was gone. Jake had not been to the smithies yet, and he had to admit he was curious, for up till now, discounting Éomer, he hadn't spoken to any of the warriors, or even any men, and the drudgery of the kitchens, despite the constant barrage of strange smells and sounds, was becoming dull.

However, as soon as they were outside in the bright morning air Brasfain caught Jake's arm and pulled him in the opposite direction.

"Come on, we'll go through the town; then we'll be able to see the eastfoldings."

"Eastfoldings?"

"Yes; apparently there from across the Snowbourn river and they're a right ragged bunch. That Selfir I was talking to, you know the one, apprentice baker, well he was saying they're almost all men, but there are a few boys, and they'll be bunking in with us."

"Really? But there's no space!" Jake tried to picture the room any more crowded; it was already quite stuffy, though fresher than most, due to the thin roofing.

"No space! Why you could fit a dozen more up there. You should see it at festival time, I can tell you. Anyway, come on, they'll be at the market now like as not, and if were slow we'll miss them." He scampered off, and Jake followed him, not quite as ready to greet new room mates.

Down in the market the stall holders were in full shout. With all the noise around him Jake had to concentrate hard in order to understand individual cries but his eyes had no such handicap. Arrayed on the tables were comestibles, such as fruit and vegetables, bread and little spiced cakes, with the butcher's table taking centre stage, chickens hanging off the board, limp heads occasionally nudged by passers by, blood from a pig's leg being caught in a tray underneath, and sold separately. Every so often they would chance upon a crafts stall, and Brasfain fingered a leather dagger sheath inlaid with a picture of a red horse covetously before the vendor shooed him off. The lady from the night before was there with the wooden spoons and he was just about to ask what they were for when Brasfain grabbed his arm again.

"There's one see; talking to the weaponry man, in the brown jerkin, do you see?" to Jake the refugee, talking with the weaponry vendor, looked like just another one of the Rohirrim, though his standards of cleanliness seemed lower. He nodded to Brasfain, who was scrutinising the man as though he had never seen another in his life and before they could think them rude for staring pulled him away.

"Oi, get off my shirt. If I rip another one Seorwyn'll have my head."

"Well come on, where's the blacksmith?"

"There's no hurry. I was just looking."

"He's only a man what's so special to look at?"

"He doesn't look like an eastfolding, that's all."

"Well maybe he isn't then!" Jake had felt the lash of Seorwyn's tongue that morning for not being back in time to serve the evening meal, and was not over keen to do so again. "Come on, or we'll be gone too long."

"You eager to get back to the kitchens then? Got a lass you're sweet on up there?" Jake made a face at him, but at least he had got Brasfain attention.

"Not me, but I've noticed that assistant bake cook has her eye on you!" Brasfain's laughed; the lady in question was nearer sixty than sixteen and had what Jake's mother would call a 'fuller figure', and swiped at Jake then gave chase as the older boy started to weaved through the market stalls to escape.

The smithy turned out to be a partially fronted building close to the market square. A curtain separated a workroom from view but a thin boy of about Brasfain's age could be seen sweating over the anvil. Brasfain shouted to him and he looked up. There was a slightly scared look on his face, and it seemed he had been beaten recently for there were dark bruises visible on the weather beaten skin of his back. Almost as soon as he had straightened up a voice bellowed from behind the curtain.

"Get back to work boy or you'll never work again!"

"But master, there's messengers here, from up at the hall." A figure stepped from behind the screen and the boy cringed. Brasfain frowned at this, as though puzzled but to Jake the boy's fright was obvious. The blacksmith was not large in body anywhere except for his arms, which were heavily muscled. Despite this sign of obvious frequent labour he was fully dressed unlike his apprentice, and his clothes bore the many small details of wealth that Jake had learnt to recognise since he arrived, though never had he seen them so numerous on one individual. His clothes looked quite new and there was an intricate, though brash, buckle on his belt, and a brooch in the same style was at his neck. It seemed flamboyant beside the plain clothes he had seen on the men of the market square, and Jake wondered how a blacksmith came to be so wealthy.

"What do you want?" Jake was called swiftly out of his reverie by a sharp slap to the side of his head. Angry, he started to answer hotly, astonished by the man's behaviour, but Brasfain cut in quickly, in an entirely different tone to his normal engaging cheekiness.

"Well, sir, we've come on an errand from Seorwyn,"

"Seorwyn? That old bag, I swear she's never satisfied. How is a man to get any rest around here with her around? Get back to work boy." This last was barked behind him to the apprentice, and Jake's anger was not diminished by his scurrying back to the anvil.

"Yes, she asked if you would be willing to provide the new refugees with the old practice swords, once you've sharpened them."

"Oh she did, did she? Well she's getting mighty soft in her old age isn't she?" He flung out an arm to clout Brasfain around the face but the other boy dodged. "I'll thank you not to mince the words as spoken, thank you very much, and mind you tell her from me that your friend here is staying here to sharpen those swords himself, for I'll not be doing it for some eastern bumbler to blunt the edge the next moment. What's he doing still here anyway; why isn't he off scouring the lands of orcs then so we can get rid of the refugees once and for all?" He turned, muttering to himself and Brasfain shot Jake an apologetic glance, shrugging his shoulders helplessly before hurrying off.

Gloomily Jake watched him go. He may have been curious about the smithy, but had not thought to stay there so long. Nevertheless, there was nothing else for it and he followed the man into the back of the workshop, where he pointed to a large barrel, filled with old swords, some rusted, some just blunt, and several with only half a blade.

"Now these swords are sharpened on that whetstone, right? And if you do it wrong I'll tan your hide, so I will." He flung himself down onto a bench, taking a swig from a dirty goblet of toughened leather that stood on the table beside him. He was carving something with a short knife, and even from a couple of metres away Jake could see it was notched and twisted slightly. Seeing him looking the man snarled and waved the knife. "You see this boy? Well you'll feel it as well if you don't get to work!"

Hurriedly Jake picked up the first sword and began to run it along the side of the large stone. There was a grating sound but after a few strokes he tested the edge by gently running his thumb across it, and he seemed to be doing it right. He became quite absorbed in the work, for though tiring it was methodical and there was the rhythmic clash of hammer on anvil in the background. He enjoyed seeing all the different ways in which the hilts had been carved; many with horses' heads, though far clumsier than any the warriors he had seen before had had. He remembered Seorwyn asking for the practice swords, and assumed these had been done quickly, probably by apprentices in happier times than now, as their own practice. They were surprisingly heavy, different from the fencing foils one of his friends back home had used, and substantially thicker, though even these varied in length and width.

After what was probably hours he noticed the absence of the hammer's clashing note and turned his head to see another man talking with the blacksmith, and the apprentice sent away. They were talking quietly but when the man looked up Jake recognised the refugee from the market. The blacksmith was now in possession of a new knife, a better knife; the knife, in fact, that Brasfain had picked up so recently. The refugee must have bought the leather gourd on the table with him too, and they were both drinking from it. Jake guessed it contained some kind of liquor or mead as they called it here. Suddenly he was startled to see that the refugee was staring at him, eyes and expression murderous.

"Oi! Who's that then?"

"Boy from the hall. He'll not talk."

"From the hall? Are you crazy? He'll go straight to her, he will." The refugee glared at the other man but the blacksmith waved his objection aside.

"He's an idiot. Doesn't hear proper or speak proper, and he's not with the army, so he must be a dullard. Look at the lout now, staring at us. Doesn't understand a word I tell you. He hasn't heard anything I've said these past three hours he's been here, just stares at all those old god-awful swords like they were toys given him by his ma. I tell you he'll not talk. Get back to work you!"

Three hours; no wonder he was hungry! It must be almost noon now. Curious to know what a refugee wanted secret, and not wishing to attract any more clouts around the head he turned back to the stone and picked up the next sword.

"Anyway, as I said, we've got the Distraction on our side now; he agreed last night, so he'll arrange that part, and you say your men are all positioned right?"

"Yeah, we'll get there all right."

"Well, you'll get your weapons from Seorwyn herself."

"Seorwyn? The old hag up the hill? Nah- she's not with us surely?"

"No; of course not you fool- you're going to be in the extra guard, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, right then."

"And you'll need to kill the horse first, because it's a right terror; got a mouth as sharp as the little lady's."

"Then what?"

"Then what what?"

"Then how do we take out the rest of them?"

"Well our friend on the council will make sure the rest are sympathetic to us, and those that aren't, well, they can be disposed of easily enough."

"And the people?"

"Look, look Rhanas, it'll be easy; what woman do you know who'll come out and fight for their country? I mean, really, they're not heroes; they're mothers, daughters, sisters, not warriors; and they won't care one way or another, so long as the price of bread don't go up too much, and there are hardly any men left who aren't either over the hill or on our side so there's nothing to worry about."

As soon as he had sharpened the last sword Jake took care to leave as quickly as he could, in as slow and bumbling a manner as possible. He had no doubt that if the blacksmith thought him anything other than an idiot he would indeed feel the edge of the knife, and it would be on his throat. Therefore he deliberately tripped over some tools as he went and dawdled down the street. However, as soon as he turned the first corner he began running towards the hall. He had to tell Brasfain what had happened, for the conversation had brought back to his mind what he'd overheard last night.

This gang were planning to kill someone, some woman anyway, and take over the whole of Edoras! That, he was sure, would not be sanctioned by the King, and he had seemed, once he'd got a hold of a sword, the right person to rule. And Gandalf; Gandalf had been able to allow him to communicate, and Jake couldn't help thinking that it would be better if the wizard stayed alive. Not that he could help them at all, except by telling someone what he'd heard. Hurriedly he quickened his stride. He had to dodge the still substantial market crowds, and before long his hurry caused a casualty. As he picked himself up from the ground he was surprised to see that the girl he'd knocked down was Gertwyr.

"Here, I'm awfully sorry." He stretched out a hand to help her up and she took it, blushing. When she was on her feet again he noticed there were other things that needed the same treatment. Hurriedly he gathered up the groceries, mercifully wrapped in starched linen cloths, but there were a few eggs that had cracked and as he remembered the tiny room the family shared he felt dreadful. Telling Brasfain would have to be put off slightly.

"Let me carry that back for you." Blushing even more deeply she allowed him to accept the basket and they walked instep towards the gate. The conversation was as difficult as the previous evening, and he was left desperately trawling for things to say again.

"I am terribly sorry about the eggs."

"Oh, I'm sure Mistress Liesa won't mind." At response to his, desperately, enquiring face she continued, "She's the inn keep's wife, though she's not a bit like any of the women mother told me to avoid in bars." Her tone was earnest, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she gasped in mortification and shut up as firmly as a clam, an even more fiery flush spreading over her features.

When they reached the inn Jake had meant only to stay to apologise but he was quickly made to sit down and eat with the family when Gertwyr's mother explained how he 'worked with Gertwyr up at the hall." He was soon sat on one of the rough benches around a large table in the public room staring at a tureen of creamy potato soup made by Mistress Leesa, and found himself most uncomfortably the centre of attention. The inn keep wanted to know all about the running of the hall's kitchens now there were so many mouths to feed, for it seemed many of the new men were to be housed at the inn and mistress Leesa and Gertwyr's mother fired a barrage of questions at him as well, seeming to work as a team. He found them almost as disconcerting as Gerthwig, who had been glowering at him from his raised seat since he had recounted why two of the eggs were broken. Only Gertwyr had nothing to say to him, though she swiftly attempted to cover up Gerthwig's ideas for conversation starters by choosing those moments to deposit cutlery and tableware which unfortunately did not do the job- Jake did not have the dictionary definition of 'Golter yeded gawpsheet' or 'curpin' but by the tone used when saying them, and the sharp slap it earned him from his mother, he guessed they weren't overly friendly.

"It was right kind of you to walk my daughter home with you last night Jake; very nice indeed." He nodded; embarrassed by further praise of what had been a request from one of the bake cooks.

"She'll not be working up there any longer though, so I doubt you'll get the chance to bump into her again. She'll have to help us down here with all these new fellows come along."

"Though I should think the other girls there are much chattier than our little Gertwyr?" Gertwyr, currently handing around the plates produced another interminable blush and scampered off to the kitchen to fetch another spoon. The Rohirrim, it seemed did not use a fork at all; only a knife and spoon. Feeling sorry for her, Jake answered as politely as he could,

"After the noise at the hall, a little quiet is welcome mistress." He couldn't help noticing a glance pass between the mother and the inn keeper's wife at that, and wondered what he'd said wrong.

"So you're one for a family life then; not a big place like the hall?"

Family was a dangerous topic, involving too many questions, and Jake hastily tried to steer the conversation away from such choppy waters.

"Yes, though the people at the hall are quite interesting. I had never before met an elf." This was perfectly true, and, knowing elves were not common in Rohan, hopefully it would spark a new discussion.

"You met an elf did you? Well, that must have been him who came with the dwarf then," the inn keep sucked his breath in, and leaned in closer, "and that's mighty unusual and no mistake. We've certainly never had an elf or a dwarf in here, have we Leesa?"

"Aye, that we haven't, but I wouldn't say as I'd like it neither. Legends and such like have no business at an honest board and they do say as the elvish women are too beautiful for their own good. I prefer the folk we _do_ get, and I wouldn't say as I didn't prefer our Gertwyr's looks to some high and mighty firstborn either. Isn't that right lad?"

Taken by surprise Jake had no time to choose anything but politeness, "Oh, yes, certainly."

Again, mistress Leesa exchanged looks with Gertwyr's mother, and mystified by the whole thing, and females in general, Jake returned his attention to the soup.

Thankyou to my lovely reviewers, I'm writing this on the eve of my Italian oral. Is anyone else out there doing AS levels (I know I'm not alone in the exam hall, that's for sure) or GCSEs or uni exams or just done their SATs or anything? Good luck to you all! And please cough review cough.


	12. accusations

Chapter 12. The exams are almost over, but I promise you, the action in Rohan is just beginning.

As soon as he could leave politely Jake did so, as keen to escape the incomprehensible silent conversation going on between the matriarchs as to tell Brasfain what he had heard. Racing up to the hall he was careful to watch out for any blushing girls he might knock down and be invited to lunch with. When he reached his goal he asked his friendly bake cook where Brasfain would be, as she had been baking his favourite honey cakes and would therefore almost certainly have seen him since Jake had.

"He's in the stables lad; a messenger's come from the army and you know the lad; he's all ears for any news of his father."

Jake quickly hurried in that direction, but when he poked his head around the doors he didn't see even a stable boy there. At the other end of the long room, flanked on each side with stalls there was a door that adjoined a guard's communal room and he made for it, guessing Brasfain was on the other side of it listening to the courier's stories.

He almost missed the quiet sound of muffled sobs from beside the legs of a brown horse (or bay as Brasfain would insist upon calling an animal with the dark mane and tail so common to the breed). He blanched when he saw who it was. His friend was sitting, half covered in the loose straw of the box, his back resting against the board wall between the stalls and his head on his chest.

"Brasfain?" he said quietly, unsure of how to help the younger boy.

"Go away." The sound was partly blanketed by the hands that had been stuffed in front of Brasfain's face to hide the tears and Jake was at a loss. He had never found Brasfain to be anything but cheerful and high spirited.

"Brasfain, what's wrong?"

"S'my Da."

"Your father?" Jake was horrified; had his friend's father been a casualty of army the two men near the inn had spoken of. "Is he..?"

"He'll never ride again." He had stood up, buried his face in the horse's mane to dry his cheeks and was now staring at Jake with a mixture of anger and shame.

"Well, at least he's alive." Jake knew the words were a mistake as soon as they fell from his lips

Brasfain looked up from the floor and Jake was quite shocked at his friend's face. "What kind of life is it if he can't ride a horse? How much better for him to die and save himself from the humiliation of being taken home in a cart like a cripple, hobbling when he walks, never to ride into battle again?! It's worse than death!"

Jake slumped down in the next stall, blocking Brasfain from his view and giving the boy some privacy. Finally, after perhaps fifteen minutes had passed and the sniffling had entirely stopped he ventured to speak.

"What did the messenger say about the war?"

"It's all bad. The enemy has many times the force we thought and the army under the command of Erkenbrand has been separated from the king."

"Erkenbrand?"

"Erkenbrand!" the anger was being directed full force at Jake, he suspected, in an attempt on Brasfain's part to relieve himself of his grief. "Why do you know nothing of the mark? A new born babe in its cradle knows more than you." Suddenly his friend was standing over him, blocking out the light from the stall. And he had a sword.

"How do I know you aren't the one who's been telling the King's movements to the enemy? Get up; I'll fight you, I will!"

He brandished the sword and Jake leapt up, realising that Brasfain was in earnest.

"How could I be feeding information to the enemy? I'm always with you- you'd see me if I did anything suspicious!"

"Oh yeah, and what about last night; you missed dinner, and today- don't tell me you stayed at the smithy through lunch, for I'll have none of your lies. I swear it; I'll run you through if you don't tell me exactly what's going on!"

"Brasfain I've done nothing. Honest. You can ask the innkeeper, or Gerthwyr, or anyone!"

The sword was still at his throat, and he was backed up against the wooden boarding separating them from the next stall, splinters pressing into his back through the shirt. As the blade forced him to lean even further back there was an almighty crack, and Jake was just in time to see the door to the guard room burst open before it broke entirely, the horse leaping out of the way in time leaving Jake to land in a heap of split wood, dirty hay and dung.

"What in Arda do you two think you're doing?" Brasfain cried out in pain as one of the guards twisted his wrist, making him drop the sword. Another hauled Jake to his feet none too gently. "You'll put that stall to rights yourselves, i can tell you that much!" The first guard had Brasfain by the scruff of his neck while he tried to get hold of his dropped sword, squirming to free himself.

"Let me go! Let me at him!"

The guard looked from Brasfain to Jake and back again.

"What's the fight about? Oh, oh Valar! You're Brasfer's boy aren't you? I'm sorry for your loss lad but I can't see as your da would be happy to see you scrapping like this. Now I won't tell Seorwyn, seeing as you've got enough in your pasture already, but i want to know what was going on." He had released Brasfain's collar but he had him in a formidable shoulder grip. The boy wriggled, trying to get rid of the firm grasp but was forced to stand there sullenly, glaring at Jake.

"He's a spy!"

"A spy?" None of the men wore their 'understanding' faces now; they were looking at Jake warily, and a sharp pain coursed down his arm as he too was seized. "What's this boy? What have you to say for yourself?"

"I'm not!" he looked around desperately, hoping to see a flicker of friendliness in any of the surrounding men, but they stared at him like stones. "Honestly! I'm not a spy! Why would Gandalf leave me here if I was?"

The man holding Brasfain nodded slowly. "That's true I suppose but…"

"Well Gandalf's left you hasn't he? That's what you were saying; he's gone off and left the army, and the King and the marshal! What's to say he's not a traitor too?" Jake was released and he glanced up in surprise, but his former captor was grinning across at Brasfain.

"You don't stay to listen at doors long enough do you boy? Gandalf's gone off somewhere, that's for sure, but he's not abandoned us; he's left us another King!"

Brasfain's attempted assault on Jake was suddenly halted. "What?"

"Aragorn; that fellow, the dark haired one who came with the elf and the dwarf, in fact he's come to this part of the world before, as Thorongil or something. Better than a wizard I can tell you, even if he did take Shadowfax with him. Anyway, he's a King, or so they say."

"King of where?" Jake could see Brasfain had lost all thoughts of spies, but understood his continued sulkiness; embarrassment and chagrin were probably battling his curiosity.

"Well, not King yet you understand, and he doesn't like to talk about it himself, but he's supposed to be the rightful King of Gondor."

"Gondor? Hat's the use of him then; the Gondorians didn't help save our horses did they?" He turned away and the soldiers winked at each other.

"Well, I suppose not much now I think about it. Not interesting enough to talk about certainly. In fact, we'll just leave you to get on with your little carpentry job shall we?"

"No!" the boy spun around so fast the straw around his feet were briefly lifted by the breeze. "I mean…well you'd better tell Jake, he's foreign and such so he'll probably want to know about it."

"Well Jake had better come with us into the guard room, so as not to bore you with the listening you know." Brasfain's face split into a sly grin; he had evidently caught on to the game.

"Oh but you forget he's supposed to help me, and if you'll be telling him then you'd better do it now before you forget and everything."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, oh and maybe you could help us, with your soldierly strength and all, I mean it'd be no trouble at all to you…" he was rewarded with a friendly clip around the ear but it was not long before the guards were indeed pitching in to help.

Unfortunately, they were left to finish on their own, for half way through the job they were interrupted.

"What in Arda are you doing?" All four looked up, and were met by an irritated glare.

"Oh, my lady! Er, there was a slight accident, we were,"

"Leave it! I wish to know the exact course of our forces." She was just turning to go when she caught sight of the guard, "Are you not supposed to be at your post at this time? Get to it quickly, and you two," she stared slowly at Jake, her gaze moving painfully slowly from his tanned leather boots, now covered in mud to his hair, which he suspected was filled with all kinds of muck, most of it rather more organic than what he got if he fell over on the Astroturf at home, "Make sure you don't leave any extra work for the ostlers in here. They have enough to do already."

Brasfain nodded, bowing his head. "You're Brasfer's boy aren't you? I am sorry for your loss lad."

Without another word she was gone and the two boys were left alone in the stables. Jake breathed a sigh of relief, for so far the Lady Éowyn had hardly proved a friend to him, but when he glanced at Brasfain he was surprised to see the younger boy gazing at the door with a dreamy look on his face.

"Brasfain?" his friend glanced up startled from his reverie and a blush spread over his features. "You know Brasfain if I didn't know better I'd say you were a bit sweet on Lady Éowyn."

"Me? Oh no, I mean it's because of her brother you know, because he's such a great fighter and all. Though she's nearly as good I would say." His voice, though as scornful as possible was not forceful enough to belie his face which was still red, but Jake was no longer thinking about romance and did not notice.

'As bad as her brother?' where had those words come from? "The men outside the inn!"

"What?"

"As bad as her brother! The men outside the inn; they were talking about the lady Éowyn!" Brasfain was staring at him with raised eyebrows, and Jake, confused as he was, endeavoured to provide an explanation for his outburst.

"These two men, near where Gertwyr's staying. They were talking about the Lady Éowyn when they said she was as bad as her brother! And that's why one of them was worried, because she might be able to get away and then…and then…" Jake trailed off as the other remnants of the conversation he had heard came back to him. "no one will hear her"

"What are you going on about?" Jake grabbed Brasfain's shoulders fiercely in realisation.

"Those men; they're planning to kill Éowyn then take over Edoras!"

"What? Are you crazy!"

"No, honest; the blacksmith is involved, and, and that eastfolding you said didn't look like an eastfolding, and at least two others and, and… and not Seorwyn!"

"Not Seorwyn? And why wouldn't the housekeeper of the golden hall not be involved in a plot to overthrow the house of Eorl? Look Jake, I'm sorry about what happened before but there's really no call for you to make fun just because I suggested you might be a spy."

"No! No, no, no! At the blacksmiths the eastfolding turned up and him and the blacksmith were talking about killing her horse first, and that the, the 'distraction', had agreed to the plan the night before, and Brasfain I _heard_ him agreeing last night outside the inn after I took Gertwyr home, then missed dinner, remember? And honest to god, I bet that more of those new refugees are part of it, and there were saying as how they'd get their weapons straight from Seorwyn herself because,"

"Because their going to be part of the new guard!" a look of disbelieving credence dawned on the other boys face. "Are you sure about this? Totally sure!"

"Yes!"

"Well if that's right then… When did they say they would do it?"

Jake racked his brain but couldn't remember any dates. "I don't know; they didn't say." He thought of the men in the smithy, remembering the apprentice quaking as the blacksmith took his anger out on him, of the threats he himself had received of beatings and the feel of the knife. He hadn't liked the sound of the men by the inn either, the worried whining voice of the man he now knew as 'the distraction' and the bullying certainty of the other. Even the Lady Éowyn had never done anything to him that was cruel, as such. His life here was good, if not easy, and any tasks he found hard were not that way intentionally, but through necessity. He would not have her dead, but could he prevent it if what the men had said was true; that even the army of the King would be obliterated. He shivered at the thought of the men's words 'like rats in a trap'. He thought of how many other boys would be like Brasfain soon, or worse, without fathers and dead themselves. "Brasfain do you think they could really do it then?"

Brasfain was chewing the nail of his index finger, his brow wrinkled in thought.

"Well not if we stop them!"

Thankyou to all my reviewers, with special mention to Larner, who has written a brilliant fic about Frodo's childhood. Hasten there if you wish to find a stunningly written piece, with non smutty or offensive humour and sweet little Merry and Pippin. Link's on my favourites list (or will be in a sec)


	13. belief's a tricky thing

Sorry about the long wait, I suddenly realised that I probably should do some kind of revision for my exams, in a 'better late than never' kind of spirit oops

Anyway, I think now is the time to introduce Éowyn as more of the character she rightfully is.

They headed out of the stables in the direction the guard who had helped them had gone. He now stood outside the great doors that led into the hall, but he was no longer in such a gregarious mood and when Brasfain approached him he scowled.

"Do you know what kind of fatigue duties I've got to do; and all because I was helping the pair of you." He returned his gaze to the wide plains that stretched on either side. "One of the new men had to take my place and the captain was not happy! So scram!"

"No, no, honest, Jake has found out something! You have to listen!"

"What is it? Something else you think I should do the work of a carpenter for?" his expression didn't lighten.

"No, spies!"

That got his attention. He swung around to face them once more, his face mottling with an angry flush.

"You and your spies! Look what your spies got me into before, hey; extra shifts on top of everything and all those new men there grinning all over their faces while the captain tells me exactly why I've got them. You're more trouble than a pack of spies you are!"

"No! It's true." Jake tried to back up his friend who seemed rather abashed at this rebuttal of what he knew was fact. The guard screwed up his face into a sarcastic sideways frown of concern.

"Oh it's true is it? And who's the spy? Seorwyn this time, Gandalf again, or maybe it's that new King Freiser was telling us; oh better yet is it our lady herself? Go on, I told you to scram once, I won't tell you again!"

Jake glanced at his friend, and was relieved to see that Brasfain also viewed the best option was retreat. They quickened their pace around the side of the building, and Brasfain slid down against the stone foundation wall, scowling at his clenched fists. Jake also sat down, and fished in his pocket for a roll he was pretty sure he had secreted earlier upon having it pressed upon him by Mistress Leesa. He broke it in half and handed one piece to his friend, tearing off chunks of the tough black bread, heedless of the slightly less than hygienic condition of his fingers.

"What'll we do now then?"

"I'm thinking. There must be someone who'd believe us."

Jake leapt to his feet. "Seorwyn!"

"Why would the old bat believe us?" Brasfain grumbled, still staring at his hands, now empty of bread again.

"Why indeed!" Brasfain leapt up as though the wall behind him was red hot, stumbling in his haste to give the respectful bow that Seorwyn required of all the males who worked under her.

"Pardon me Mistress…I…we…were just…"

"Just lazing; I know! What I would like to have explained is exactly what you have been doing all morning, wool gathering?"

"No mistress, you sent us to the smithy for the swords."

"I believe I sent you there rather earlier than it is now. Who would like to explain that to me? You!"

Jake gulped. The woman had not paid much attention to him since his arrival but he had seen that stare before, at maids who burnt the bread, at boys who dropped sacks of meal, at Gertwyr when she failed to peel the carrots. It was even less pleasant when directed at him. "The smith wanted us to sharpen the swords ourselves, mistress. And then I…we were invited to take our midday meal at the inn and…"

"Invited to take your midday meal at the inn? Invited to take your midday meal at the inn?" her voice had grown slightly higher pitched and Jake winced at the early warning signs of a shouting fit. "You are not a little lordling who is invited anywhere! You have duties to carry out and jobs to do; you have no cause to go anywhere, much less an inn!"

"We're sorry Mistress Seorwyn, honest we are!" Brasfain had taken advantage of her need for oxygen and was staring down at the tufty grass on which they stood, piggling a hole in the turf with his toes. It was at this point that most of the maids and older kitchen helpers would let him off whatever charge he was accused of, but Seorwyn was made of sterner stuff.

"Well you'll be a good sight sorrier when you've finished scaling the porridge pots which didn't get done yesterday!" Jake winced inwardly. The porridge that was served here in Meduseld wasn't just oats and milk; there were also flour, dried fruits and treacle to thicken it. When hot it lined the stomach like cement, and when cold it showed a sticking power equal to tar. Nor was it just one small saucepan; the inhabitants of the great hall consumed three cauldrons of the stuff at one sitting. Glancing up he saw Seorwyn was not going to let them off any time soon- the sentence held and the two boys scurried off to serve it.

They scraped at the slightly ingrained oat flakes and smears of honey in silence, Jake still smarting from Seorwyn's glares and Brasfain deep in thought; over what Jake didn't know but could only suppose it was about the eastfoldings' plans. It was quite hard to remove from the already crusty iron pots, carbuncled as they were with decades of hard usage. The hygiene was different to what Jake knew; so long as it did not affect the taste then it was thought good to eat. He had long since stopped looking at the kitchen business from his previous modern point of view, and as he didn't seem to have come to any harm from any of the daily evils; bread brushed off with a casual hand when it fell on the floor, a lack of teeth brushing and most markedly a lack of toilet facilities, he did not see any reason to worry unduly about the state of the cooking utensils.

It was not until they had cleaned one of the cauldrons each, and were working together on the third that Brasfain spoke.

"Jake, I've been thinking, you know you said that you knew my lord Éomer?"

"Hmm?" he was trying to scrape off a particularly tenacious blackened currant from the base, not wholly paying attention to his companion.

"Well if you know Éomer as well as you make out."

"Hmm?"

"Do you?"

"Oh!" Jake looked up at the sharp dig in the ribs, "Oh…oh yes"

"Then couldn't you go and ask the lady Éowyn herself about all this stuff?"

Jake nearly dropped his pallet knife into the pot, choking on nothing. "The lady Éowyn!" was all he could splutter as his friend clapped him on the back so hard he thought his kidneys would come out the front. "I couldn't ask her anything! She's about as friendly as Seorwyn!"

"Éowyn? Like Seorwyn? Don't make me laugh! Eowyn's the fairest woman ever to come to Meduseld according to my father. Discounting my mother that is. Kind as well, though there are some that say she's not as ladylike as others, I've never seen ought lady in my life with manners as sweet as my lady Éowyn's."

Jake looked sideways at his friend. Brasfain's voice had become softer, and he was gazing off over the rubbish heaps where they had been sent with the pots as though they were piles of roses, not table scrapings.

"No one as sweet as lady Éowyn hey? I'll bet there's no one sweeter on her either!" laughing he dodged the playful blow Brasfain aimed at his head, wondering whether Brasfain's calf love would change if he was actually to meet any other lady than Éowyn for he doubted that this time usually let their noble women fight and stride around as ably as did the men.

Brasfain meanwhile had returned his attention to the business of scraping, hiding his blushes by bending over his work as far as he was able.

"Close your mouth fool!" this sally was not quite as effective as it had been meant, the tone a strange mix of embarrassment and sulkiness, but he at least lifted his head form the contemplation of the pot bottom.

"Look! You can ask her now." Sure enough, when Jake followed the direction pointed out to him by Brasfain's finger he was able to discern the figure of Lady Éowyn, dressed in a serviceable leather pinafore effort over grey wool under dress. She was tramping up the hill from the far stables, where the horses were permanently stabled when their riders did not bear messages to the council. From the black look on her face the tidings she had so lately received, and they had heard part of, had not been overly favourable. How to begin telling her more bad news?

"Err, milady?"

Deep in thought and continuing her fierce contemplation of the turf she walked on Éowyn did not hear, and Jake was forced, by a dig in the small of his back by Brasfain, to repeat his enquiry.

"Lady Éowyn?" Looking up she registered the two boys and flushed angrily at the tone of voice addressing her.

"Yes?"

"We think, uh, that is we know, well we heard…" he tailed off under her gaze which was as cold as any 'no timewasters' sign.

"We think there's a plot against you, my lady." Éowyn raised an eyebrow at Brasfain's much more lucid explanation.

"You think that there's a plot against…me?"

"Spies, my lady, in the city already, my lady."

"Indeed? And what exactly do these spies want?"

"Well, from what we've heard they want to take over Meduseld, and kill everyone in line to the throne."

"The King's son is already in his grave, and the first marshal is out leading the army with my brother; they couldn't do anything against them from here. Anyway, how could they possibly have already infiltrated Edoras? We've had nothing but trails of refugees all week." Her voice was not altogether disbelieving, or at least, not in contrast to the door ward they had spoken to before, but Jake could see they had a long way to go before they had her convinced of any danger.

"There is you, my lady." Brasfain sounded puzzled that she did not rank herself alongside the Kings son and her own brother.

"How am I any danger? After all, I am just a woman." Her voice was as bitter as the horseradish they put in the stew.

She turned to stare out over the plains and the boys exchanged glances.

"But my lady…"

"And stop calling me that!"

"Please, my, uh," Brasfain stuttered over the title, unsure of how to address her but left with only her name. Éowyn rolled her eyes and waved her hand impatiently, cutting off any further conundrum and Brasfain settled for avoidance as the best policy. "It's Grima Wormtongue's men!"

"What?" Eowyn's face was whiter than the dress he had first seen her wearing. "Wormtongue was thrown from the city by my uncle and lord Aragorn." Her voice was hoarse. "He will never crawl back here!"

"But he has allies here, among the eastfolding refugees. They've been sent to back up the guard, and been given weapons, and everything; even the blacksmiths in on it!"

"The eastfoldings?" Éowyn seemed to be in a state of shock, but at least she was no longer dismissing them.

"Yes! They say they've got friends on the council and there was something about a distraction."

"On the council! Did they say who?" the shield maiden looked like she was capable of walking right in and skewering the traitors. Brasfain turned enquiringly to Jake to supply the answer.

"No milady." She didn't even register the renewed use of her title.

"What else did they say? No, wait; who said it?"

"Well, first I heard two men talking down by the inn, near the gate,"

"Was the watchman there?"

"Yes, but they were whispering, so he couldn't hear them."

"How could you hear them then?"

Jake considered; the men had been at an equal distance from both him and the guard, so why hadn't the guard heard as well?

"The guard was wearing a helm, milady, and they were hid in the shadow of a roof."

"Hmm." The question of the helm seemed to give her pause for thought. "I shall have to see about that. Could you describe the men?"

"No, it was dark where they were standing. I can describe the blacksmith and his friend though."

"Yes, well I'm sure the blacksmith can be identified easily enough; what did the eastfolding look like?"

Jake thought back to the man. "He was quite tall, with a tanned face,"

"Tanned?"

"Darker than normal, from the wind and sun; it's a word they use up in the north apparently." Brasfain cut in, eager to show his aptitude at understanding some of Jake's less translatable words.

"Ah! Swarthy."

"Yes Milady. Anyway, he was wearing a brown jerkin, and carrying a knife; you know Brasfain, the one you picked up. He'd darker hair than most, and…and…and that's all I can remember."

"You didn't see his face?"

"Well, a bit; he's got quite a long nose, with a break halfway up, and just a bit of a beard on his chin."

Éowyn nodded, evidently satisfied. "Right, you two aren't to tell anyone of this, you understand? I'll deal with it, but if you see anything else suspicious, you're to come to me."

She strode off into the kitchens, and Jake was left with a disconcerting sense of having done something vaguely right for a change.

Well presumably you've done the first 'R', so I'd appreciate molto if you fulfilled the second 'R' too, i.e. review. Thanks :)


	14. spoons and soup

I crawl back in shame after making you wait so long. I was away from my pc most of the holidays, and I've been applying to unis, getting AS results and all sorts, so I have been busy…

Anyway, enough excuses, here is chapter 14, using characters and places I don't own (well actually that adds up to about three in this chapter; Edoras, Eowyn and Arda, but never mind.)

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When they returned to the kitchen ready to help with the dinner Seorwyn collared them, a sour expression on her face. 

"My lady has asked me that you two be left out of the serving line today." She sniffed haughtily ensuring they knew just how much extra work they would be given tomorrow to make up. "She told me you were to be given an evening off and an earlier meal."

Jake didn't think they had lemons in Rohan, but he was willing to believe Seorwyn could supply enough acid to make up for them. She pointed to one of the boards where two thick wedges of bread spread with thick grey dripping rested beside a hunk of cheese. Jake groaned inwardly; dripping was his most repulsive discovery since he had arrived. It was the cold fat from meat, and he was assured it tasted better when it was fried with the bread, but all too often they treated it like some kind of butter and he loathed it.

His disgust must have shown in his face because Seorwyn gave another of her caustic sniffs. "You'll eat it and lump it. I've no time to cater for two little lordlings such as you. Now get along with you!"

They gathered up their supper and left as quickly as they could; Seorwyn might know they were free to go but the other workers were likely to buttonhole them for some reason or other. They headed down the hill as the dusk showed signs of arriving, Brasfain chattering happily at the thought of being of some use to lady Éowyn.

"Do you think I should get her a cawl?"

"A what?"

"You know." Brasfain blushed, "A cawl; a love spoon."

"Pardon me?" Jake couldn't believe his ears. "A love spoon?"

"Right, forget it." he was red to the very tips of his ears, staring resolutely at the ground as some of the refugees on their way up to the hall chuckled.

"No, really; what is a love spoon?"

"It's a spoon, a nicely decorated one that a man buys for a woman he favours."

Jake's mind flashed to the spoons he had seen in the market place before. "Oh yeah, I've seen some of those on sale. I didn't know they were special."

"Well, it's supposed to be a betrothal gift, but you get some that are less, well, less serious." The scarlet flush was disappearing now, as the number of refugees around them grew smaller. "They're more like a favour for a lady."

"And you'd like to give one to the Lady Éowyn?" his friend nodded and Jake didn't have the heart to suggest she probably didn't feel at all romantically towards his freckled twelve year old companion. "Well, we could go and pick one now; we might overhear something in the market place anyway."

Brasfain looked doubtful at that, as dusk really was setting in now and the market place would probably be deserted but Jake could see the idea of buying Éowyn a gift overriding his logic and turned to slip down a narrow alleyway he was pretty sure led to the main square.

When they reached there most of the stalls had indeed closed up completely but there were lucky; the woman with the cawls seemed to have taken root, so firmly set was she in the place he had last seen her. They went over to the stall and Jake nudged the reluctant Brasfain forward. The old crone grinned a toothless smile up at him, though the sight of the mottled purple gums was offset by a kindly twinkle in her eye.

"Come to buy something for your young lady, soldier?" Brasfain squirmed under her grandmotherly scrutiny, seeming to have lost his tongue. The woman tried again; "Which one would you like?"

Jake was strongly reminded of himself as a five year old boy choosing a cake from a bakery for his mother's birthday present, grubby penny clenched in fist, unable to do anything but point. He only hoped Brasfain's gift would receive as warm a welcome as his sticky offering had prompted from his mother. The prickle in his throat from the sudden recollection of that long forgotten birthday celebration came out of nowhere, as did the unexpected tears, which he hastily tried to blink away.

Not quickly enough though; the woman had seen and she transferred her sales patter from the mute to what seemed to her to be the easier catch with the speed of a striking snake.

"You have someone special to think of, I can tell. I'll bet she'd like to see a bit of that affection, hey? No better way than one of my cawls my lovely; go on- choose your favourite."

Jake's thoughts were still with his mother and he hardly heard the saleswoman, except for the invitation to choose one of the undeniably well-crafted spoons. Before he knew it he had pointed at one with the image of a horse rearing for the handle and instead of a small ball of wood caught in it as most had, there was a pretty globe created by two rings of wood interlocking over each other carved with some of the strange runes he occasionally saw engraved over doorways and on weaponry up at the hall. He didn't hear any of the woman's comments on his choice, so filled were his thoughts with his family. He took the wrapped parcel of soft leather numbly and it was not until Brasfain shook him hard that he realised his friend had paid for both of their purchases and they were in a quite different part of the city; down by the gate where he had first heard the plotters.

Brasfain was asking him if the inn was the one where Gertwyr stayed, and when Jake told him it was he pulled him towards the lit doorway.

"It's too early for them to come yet; barely dark. We can have a bite to eat here first; I don't feel like going back to mam's tonight, not when all the women will be in the house commiserating with her about Da."

Jake was surprised at his normally kind friends attitude towards the tragedy in his family, and Brasfain must have caught his startled face because he explained casually, "There's no place for a man in a house of mourning in Rohan; they have to be strong for their womenfolk, and it's the mothers and sisters who grieve. I'd only get thrown out, and anyway, my mam'll probably be relieved he's on his way home. She hate's any mention of war." He shook his head, as though this outlook was utterly incomprehensible to him, and started to knock the dust from his shoes off on the small step.

Before they could step onto the reeds laid over the floor of the public bar and eating area Jake was almost knocked right out again by Gerthwig, who had flung his arms round his knees, attempting to tackle him to the ground. The wind was completely knocked out of him by the impact and he lay, gasping like a fish out of water, with stabbing pains in his lungs as he tried to suck some more oxygen in. With a wrathful exclamation Brasfain tugged the little boy up by his collar and set him, none too gently, back on to the reeds, opening his mouth to chastise the human cannonball.

"What in Arda did you think you were doing!"

Jake's shock brought him too his feet, though he still clutched his heaving stomach. Brasfain's voice had come out as a deep chested, irate matron's war cry, and it had come from across the room. Mistress Leesa was striding over to the trio and both the older boys blanched in sympathy as she glowered down at Gerthwig.

"I told you! I told you not to come into the bar after the lamps are lit and I also told you not to run inside." Her finger was wagging like a wind up toy and her cheeks were slightly flushed. "Now you've knocked your sister's nice friend down. What'll your mother say?" She set to dusting Jakes back with an angry vigour.

"Really mistress, it's quite all right; he didn't mean any harm by it." his apology was more aligned to stopping the grooming than letting Gerthwig off, but even so the little boy's upturned face was a welcome reward. Taking the chance, he ruffled Gerthwig's hair, which wiped the beaming smile off and replaced it with a frown, much to Jake's private amusement.

"Well, that's as maybe, but I shall hope you two will stay for your supper with us, as an apology on behalf of the h'istablishment?" Not gibing them a chance to protest her offer they followed her through to the kitchen behind the public room and the appetising aroma of new bread and a thick carroty soup immediately welcomed them.

As the sounds of even Brasfain's embarrassingly loud slurping died away, and Gertwyr and Mistress Leesa began to clear the bowls from the table to be replaced with dishes of potatoes and a vegetable pie Jake found himself again the centre of attention at the table, with Gertwyr's mother asking politely whether he'd spent a happy afternoon after they saw him last. When he caught his friend's meaningful glance he introduced Brasfain properly, as he'd not had the chance before, and Mistress Leesa and her husband tutted under their breath.

"It's a terrible thing for your father to lose his faculties like that!" her husband nodded in agreement.

"We heard this afternoon about the accident; this war is really getting nasty by the sound of it. How many more of my customers will be harmed by it; that's what I want to know."

"Now Asweld, that's not the way to speak of it! You know our warriors are fighting for us!"

"Well I just wish they would fight a little nearer; soldiers may be good for business but not if they're all the way over the other side of the country!" he got up from the table and strode off into a back room, leaving mistress Leesa rolling her eyes at Gertwyr's mother.

This was the first time he had heard anyone really speak out against the war before, and Jake could feel Brasfain shifting uncomfortably on the bench next to him. As courteously as possible they excused themselves from the now rather chilled atmosphere at the table, pleading urgent duties up at the hall. After telling Jake to be sure to return they were released with a slice of pie for each of them to eat on their way back, and they stood to take their leave. Before they could exit the room however mistress Leesa spoke up.

"You walk your leofman to the door, Gertwyr." the girl blushed bright red, and almost spilled the pitcher of water she was carrying to the table.

"Mistress Leesa!"

"Off you go dear!" Jake was surprised to see the two older women exchange almost predatory smiles behind her back as she hurried out of the kitchen door in front of them, but was tugged out of the room by Brasfain too quickly to follow up his suspicions.

After a still flushed Gertwyr had waved them off from the door and disappeared back inside Jake turned to find Brasfain, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hair, staring up at him with an expression of mingled horror and disbelief.

What?"

"Didn't you hear what she called you?"

"She mumbles a lot; I didn't think she said anything."

"No; not Gertwyr! Mistress Leesa! She called you Gertwyr's Leofman!"

"Oh I thought she meant you and me with that- what does it mean?"

Brasfain ran his fingers through his permanently tousled hair. "It mean's 'sweetheart'. Mistress Leesa; the most notorious matchmaker in Edoras has decided _you_ would make the perfect husband for her houseguest. She'll have you married off within the week!"

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I hope to get the next update sooner, but then again I said that last time so? 

Yeah, review please :)


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